


We Fall Together

by Kacka



Category: The 100
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Archaeology, Demon Summoning, Established Relationship, Exes, F/M, Halloween, Mom!Clarke, Roommates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-08-12 19:34:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 29,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7946476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kacka/pseuds/Kacka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>tumblr prompts? tumblr prompts.</p><p>what to expect: fluffy, sweet drabbles/one-shots of inconsistent length because i have very little control</p><p> </p><p>Ch. 14: ""i don't know how to love people without them dying"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "how long have you been standing there?"

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on tumblr [here](http://katchyalater.tumblr.com)

Clarke somehow didn’t realize that Bellamy moving into her spare bedroom would mean he’s always around, always _lurking_.

It makes sense, once she thinks about it. Teacher workdays don’t start for another couple of weeks, so he’d be using the last days of his summer to lounge on her couch even if he didn’t live there. Sometimes she has to do a double-take if she walks in and finds it empty, because it just doesn’t look right without him stretched out on one end, glasses slightly askew, smiling lazily when he sees her. The only thing that has really changed is that he doesn’t come and go in the morning and at night, he’s just there. All the time.

She loves Bellamy, in every sense of the word. Life got shitty for both of them right as they were establishing a tentative friendship a few years back, and leaning on each other, facing everything side-by-side brought them close. It was like trial by fire for their friendship, and it ended up welding them together.

He’s one of the most important people in her life, to say nothing of how much she _wants_ him, wants to be able to kiss him when he gives her those lazy smiles, wants to cuddle with him in bed on Saturday mornings instead of dragging herself to the couch and falling back to sleep with her feet in his lap, wants to count his freckles with her lips. She’s more than happy to have him as a roommate and a friend, even if she wants more.

So the problem isn’t Bellamy himself.

The problem is, Clarke has lived on her own for the past few years, and she’s kind of forgotten how to live with another human.

She’s forgotten that she shouldn’t leave her dishes around wherever she feels like it until it occurs to her to clean them up. She’s forgotten that the trash will fill up twice as quickly, that they’ll go through more toilet paper in a month.

She’s forgotten that she can’t blast music to get her moving in the mornings, to the point where she can’t even hear him banging on the adjoining wall, doesn’t even realize it’s a problem until she catches sight of him, sleep-rumpled and adorably groggy, in her mirror and nearly jumps out of her skin because she thought she was alone.

She’s forgotten that she shouldn’t just wander around in her underwear. Not that she’s opposed to Bellamy seeing her in any state of undress, but she’d prefer it be consensual, instead of forced upon him when she forgot to close her bedroom door, or because it didn’t occur to her to put clothes on before she went to make her nightly cup of tea.

“Sorry!” She yelps, grabbing the first article of clothing within reach. It turns out to be his sweatshirt, but that’s at least better than standing around in her bralette and panties. “Sorry,” she says again, tugging at the hem so it covers as much of her as possible. “I should’ve asked first.”

“I’ve let you borrow clothes before,” he shrugs, but he’s still not looking directly at her and the vibe in the room is distinctly awkward.

“Yeah, but I asked first,” she points out. “I really am trying to be a better roommate, it’s just been a while since I had to think about anyone else when I’m going about my normal routine.”

“I can find another place–”

“No,” she says quickly. “I want you here. I mean, you basically already lived here, so it’s only fair for you to pay me rent and get an actual room that’s yours instead of killing your back on the couch–”

“Clarke.” He’s looking at her now, determinedly in the eye but making contact nonetheless, and wearing an amused smile. “You don’t have to feel awkward. It’s just me.”

“Sorry.” She tugs the sweatshirt again.

“And you don’t have to apologize.”

“Right. I forgot. My house, my rules. Suck it up, Blake.”

He snorts, his smile leaning into a smirk.

“I pay rent too, as you just pointed out. But don’t feel like you have to change this particular habit on my account. Feel free to be as naked as you want.”

“Big talk,” she laughs. “You know me better than to throw down a challenge you don’t want me to back up.”

His gaze is direct. Pointed.

“Bring it on, Griffin.”

After that, she remembers more about clothing–specifically, exercising her freedom to shuck her pants the minute she comes in the door, to lounge around in her towel after she showers, or to hang out in her sports bra and running shorts long after she’s come home from the gym.

Bellamy, not to be outdone, reciprocates by being almost constantly shirtless. It’s a problem for her sanity. Their normal teasing takes on an unquantifiable edge, their bickering becomes more heated, their casual touches suddenly feel more intimate. Everything feels heightened.

Yet Clarke _still_ forgets sometimes, that he’s there. That he’s nearby. That he’s probably standing somewhere behind her, watching and laughing as she drunkenly fumbles to get her shoes off, as she sniffs clothes that have been on the floor for a few days to see if they pass for wearable, as she argues with her phone when people on the internet are wrong.

That he can probably hear every word of her semi-annual blow up on the phone with her mother, the one she’s had a million times but still leaves her feeling raw and exposed. More so than the actual near-nudity she’s been wearing like armor around the apartment lately.

“Mint chocolate chip or cookie dough?”

Clarke physically jolts in her desk chair. She’s been staring blankly at the wall since they hung up, too tired to even move.

“Sorry,” he says, his voice every bit as soft as the felt pajama pants he’s wearing, as his freshly-washed hair, as the understanding on his face. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“How long have you been standing there?”

“Only a few seconds. I was waiting for you to come out after you finished the call, but–” he shrugs. “Then I thought you might need somebody to come to you. Maybe with ice cream?”

Her laugh sounds hollow, and not entirely her own.

“I think I’m set on the ice cream front. I kind of just want to climb in bed and turn on something mindless.”

He nods once and begins to back away.

“Got it. Let me know if there’s anything I can do, I guess.”

“Bellamy.”

He pauses and looks back, and she _wants_.

“You don’t have to go. You can stay.”

She’s weirdly nervous as he sizes her up again, conflict in his eyes.

“Let me just go get a shirt.”

“You’re caving?” She says, before she can think better of it. It’s almost a joke, and it makes him pause again, then smile. She smiles too, tentative. She doesn’t usually feel like smiling this soon after throwing down with her mom.

“Just thinking of you, roomie.”

She holds the covers open for him and he stiffens only momentarily before climbing in next to her, letting her tuck herself into his side. She shimmies out of her shorts, losing them somewhere in the covers, and reaches back to unhook her bra but a hand on her wrist stops her.

“Clarke,” he says, his voice strangled. “I cave, okay? We’re in bed together, and there’s a lot of skin happening, and you’re vulnerable and I need you to keep your bra on.”

Clarke bites her lip, tries to hold her smile in, then gives up and leans forward to kiss him sweetly. Even though she’s the one who initiated it, the press of his mouth against hers nearly takes her breath away. It’s over too soon for her liking, but she doesn’t want to make him feel like he’s taking advantage of her, so she settles for what she thinks she can get tonight, in this moment.

“Can I take the bra off if I promise I want to do that a lot more tomorrow, when I’m in a better state of mind?”

He clears his throat, trying to regain his balance, then slips his hand up the back of her shirt to make easy work of the clasp.

“If you have to,” he sighs, greatly burdened. His fingers stroke the newly exposed skin, then make their way softly down her spine as she cues some show or other up on her laptop. She’s not really paying attention to what she chooses, but it doesn’t matter much because she’s out in minutes, Bellamy’s heartbeat strong and steady beneath her cheek.

The next morning, she’s not surprised to be alone in her bed.

She doesn’t bother finding the shorts tangled in her sheets, or putting any other manner of clothing on as she goes to start the coffee. She’s humming to herself and swaying a bit as she measures the grounds, and she only jumps a little when a pair of arms encircle her from behind.

“You need to stop sneaking up on me,” she chastises, sweeping up the grounds she spilled before turning around to kiss him again.

It’s just as soft as the first one, just as sweet, but Bellamy isn’t holding back this time. He draws it out, slow and lingering as a lazy Saturday morning until she melts boneless and content into him.

“I gotta say,” he murmurs, not pulling far away, “I like this dress code a lot better now that I can do this.”

“You could have been doing this the whole time,” she confesses.

He laughs and kisses her again, and her heart feels too big for her body.

“Sorry I scared you.”

“It’s okay.” She laughs as his hands brush her sides, where she’s most ticklish. “I assume at some point I’ll get used to having you here.”

“Let’s hope, because you’re gonna have a hard time getting rid of me.”

Clarke just grins and pulls him back in. She feels lighter, the piece of her that has wanted for so long, finally at rest. It’s a heady feeling, but one that she decides she can dissect later. He’s not going anywhere. Not if she has anything to say about it.


	2. "you're safe now. i've got you."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke wants it on the record that she thinks it's a bad idea for Bellamy to bond with his sister's new boyfriend over hiking when he's deathly afraid of heights. Of course, it never really works to tell Bellamy he shouldn't do something.

“Bellamy, this is stupid.”

“You need to get that on a t-shirt. It would save you some effort.”

Clarke scowls and pushes her limp, damp hair off her forehead. It’s supposed to be cooler in the mountains. How come she’s still sweating buckets?

“You don’t have to prove yourself to anyone here, Bell. I’ll still love you, Octavia will still love you, Miller and Raven will still basically think you’re an idiot--”

“Clarke, it’s going to be fine. O wants me to meet her boyfriend, and this is what they like to do. I’m trying not to hold it against him.”

Clarke slips her arms around his waist, linking her hands behind his back.

“So he’s into nature. Could be worse,” she says, thoughtful. He smirks as his arms come around her.

“You’re right,” he admits. “He could be into Nickelback, or heroin.”

“Those are the same,” she laughs, pressing her lips gently against his, holding herself back. This is a family mountain, after all. There could be kids around. Or squirrels, or rabbits, or something equally innocent and uncorrupted. “I just think you guys could bond over something you actually have in common _,_ instead of going hiking when you’ve got a paralyzing fear of heights.”

“You know this is like, the complete wrong way to accomplish what you’re trying to accomplish, right? Telling me not to do the thing is only going to make me want to do the thing more.”

Clarke snorts and steps out of his arms, starting up the trail. They’re supposed to meet Octavia and Lincoln at the trailhead, and Clarke’s fretting has made them late. Besides, it’s regretfully too hot and humid to be wrapped up in each other for long.

“I thought you might be somewhat swayed by your girlfriend’s infinite wisdom. Clearly, I was deluded--”

“Rookie mistake.” He smiles her, all boyish charm, and her reluctance melts a little. “It’s not even that high of a mountain, right? I’ll keep my eyes on the trail, I won’t partake in the scenic overlooks. And if I catch an accidental peek, well, how bad can it be?”

The answer is _extremely_ bad.

For the most part, the first part of the hike is fine. It’s not too steep of a climb, more of a gentle slope, and they’re in the thick of the woods. Clarke is able to relax and chat with Octavia while Bellamy gets to know her new serious boyfriend.

After a couple of hours they arrive at a picnic area, resplendent with a couple of old wooden tables and an outhouse. There’s a split in the trees that allows for a glimpse of the valley yawning before them, but Clarke claims the bench that places her back to it. Bellamy squeezes her knee when he slides in next to her but doesn’t draw attention to it.

As they get later into the afternoon, the hike becomes steeper. There are points when roots and careful landscaping have turned the trail into something akin to a staircase, almost a ladder. Bellamy lags behind the group, hands carefully braced on tree trunks as they begin the ascent, and Clarke falls back to walk with him.

“You good?” She asks, looking back at him. It makes her miss her step and her footing falters, hands shooting out to catch herself. She hears a sharp intake of breath from Bellamy, and then his hands are firm on her waist, steadying her.

“Careful,” he breathes. She places one of her hands over his and soothes her thumb over his knuckles.

“It’s not too late to turn back, you know.”

“I’m not the one who almost fell,” he teases, though his eyes betray apprehension.

“You’re right. I’m the one who needs to turn back. We should call it quits.”

“Nice try,” he chuckles, releasing his hold and herding her forward. “We should get a move on before we get left behind.”

Clarke rolls her eyes but continues moving forward, upward. By the time the stairs empty out to a plateau just beneath the peak, her lungs and legs are burning in equal measure. It’s nice and windy, the air marginally more breathable, the view breathtaking.

“Your sister and her boyfriend are insanely fit. Remind me to add more cardio into my routine,” she grumbles, stretching as she turns. Bellamy’s face is ashen, his expression slack and his eyes wide. They’ve got a near-panoramic view, and there are few places he can cast his eyes without seeing just how high up they actually are.

“You guys coming?” Octavia calls, she and Lincoln already standing at the base of the trail to the peak.

“We’ll catch up,” Clarke tells her, waving them on. As soon as they’re gone she looks back to Bellamy, who has dropped to a crouch. His breaths come in rattling gasps, uneven intervals, and she’s glad when Medical Professional Clarke, the version of her who is calm and collected in a crisis, overrides Worried Clarke.

“Hey,” she says, quiet but firm. “Look at me. Just look at my face, okay?” She reaches for one of his hands, placing it on her chest so he can feel the beat of her heart, the rhythm of her inhales and exhales. She holds it there, secure, as she rests her other hand over his wildly thrumming heart.

“Match my breathing,” she tells him, exaggerating the rise and fall and breathing through her mouth until he starts to mimic her. “Look straight at me.” His eyes finally, _finally_ snap to hers. She can see the fear there, and she hates it for him. “Don’t look around. Or maybe I should say, _do_ look around. Make that reverse psychology work for me.”

His laugh is ragged around the edges, his eyes humorless, but it brings a wave of relief anyways.

“You’re okay.” She’s not totally paying attention to what she’s murmuring as she monitors his breathing, but the sound of her voice, low and measured, runs over both of them like the cool, steady breeze. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you. We’re fine.”

She reaches back to comb her fingers through his hair as his breathing evens out. “See?” She smiles. “You’re fine. You’re good.”

“I love you,” he says, his voice low and rough. It’s the first time he’s said it, but it doesn’t come as much of a shock.

“I know.” She smiles. “I love you too. I’d have to, to let you drag me _hiking_.”

By the time Octavia and Lincoln return, Bellamy has pulled himself together a little more. They’re sitting among the trees, passing a water bottle back and forth and trying to keep their minds occupied.

“What happened? You missed a great view.”

“I can’t keep up with you guys,” Clarke shrugs. “Maybe we’ll catch the next one.”

“Or maybe not,” says Bellamy, lacing his fingers with Clarke’s. They’re not trembling at all. “I’m pretty content with where I am.”


	3. "just admit i'm right."/"that doesn't even make sense."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy and Clarke are nemeses who get stuck working together on a six-week archaeological program through their university.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ignore the fact this is more than twice as long as the other chapters! it took on a life of its own.
> 
> i've wanted to write a romantic location trope for a while, so here that is as well. crossposted to [tumblr](http://katchyalater.tumblr.com) and prompts from [this list](http://katchyalater.tumblr.com/post/149826656608/writing-prompts).

“O, I’m putting you as my emergency contact. You okay with that?”

“Who else would you put?” She snorts, looking over his shoulder. “Miller?  _ Murphy? _ I don’t think so.”

“I could. They’re adults who, you know, live in the adult world and pay taxes and are generally more prepared to handle emergency situations than a nineteen-year-old.”

“Murphy’s handle on an emergency situation is to drink copiously and make a lot of sarcastic remarks.”

“And on second thought, I’m not a hundred percent sure he knows how to do his taxes,” Bellamy admits. Octavia smiles and ruffles his hair.

“Besides, don’t forget I was raised by the biggest worrywart in the world. You’ve prepared me for the worst in any and every situation.” 

It’s true. Bellamy knows Octavia is incredibly capable to handle whatever the world might throw at her. He also knows that capability is, in part, due to his cynical opinion that the world is going to throw more shit their way than they deserve. She sounds chipper and fond as she says it, though, so the knowledge doesn’t send him into the guilty spiral it might have under different circumstances.

“Plus,” she goes on, oblivious to the laps his mind is running, “if they need someone to verify that you deserve to go on this trip, I can tell them about the time you stole half my legos so you could finish your to-scale model of the Parthenon.”

“It’s not an application. I’ve already been offered the spot on the trip. I’m just filling out the paperwork.”

“Still. If anyone questions how much of a nerd you are, I’m the girl to talk to.”

“Thanks for your support.”

He means for it to come out as a grumble, but he can’t wipe the smile from his face.

 

* * *

 

“How long are you leaving me for, again?” Raven grumbles, flipping aimlessly through Clarke’s neatly-printed information packet.

“It’s six weeks, Rae. Don’t be so dramatic.” She chews on her lip as she studies the next section. “Can I put you as my emergency contact?”

“Hell no,” Raven says immediately. “Then if anything happened, I’d end up the one having to call your mother. I know you guys aren’t on the best of terms right now, but there’s no way I’m signing up to be that go-between. And don’t you dare ask Wells, either.” Her dark eyes flash when Clarke starts to open her mouth. “Just put your mom’s phone number and rest on the knowledge they probably won’t have to use it.”

“Fine,” Clarke sighs, writing her mom’s cell number with care. As if just writing it might accidentally dial her up.

“I know. I’m a genius. Anything else you need help with?”

“Not really. That’s pretty much it. Except–” Clarke pauses as her eyes fall on the last section: requested on-site partner. “As long as I’m being brave,” she mutters to herself, hastily scribbling  _ Bellamy Blake _ before she can talk herself out of it.

 

* * *

 

Bellamy has been on a few international flights in his lifetime-- mostly to and from the Philippines, to visit extended family-- and every time he thinks it can’t be as bad as he recalls. 

And then he gets stuck at check-in behind some couple trying to tote the entirety of Target’s inventory on the plane with them, he forgets to remove something at security and that’s a huge hassle, he tries to fold himself into the middle seat in the row with his knees practically at his ears for lack of space and the person next to him didn’t put deodorant on this morning and there’s a  _ talker _ on his other side and he remembers: everything about flying is awful.

The flights to the archaeological site in Greece, where he and a few others will be for the next month and a half, are no exception. By the time they land and pile into the passenger van that will cart them out of the city, he feels simultaneously antsy and lethargic, ready to jitter out of his skin and then pass out.

It’s some small measure of comfort that the princess isn’t faring any better. She always looks so composed, seeing her disheveled and grumpy (or… grumpier than usual), her hair frizzing in the heat, causes a twinge of vindictive pleasure.

“I can’t tell what I need more: a shower or a nap,” one of the other students says from the backseat. Bellamy somehow ended up wedged between the princess and the window, and while he’s too tired to really pick at her, he  _ can _ sprawl until he’s spilling into her territory. It’s no hardship for him, and it makes her scowl, so he counts it a win.

“Definitely a shower,” she replies. He wants to roll his eyes. She’s probably used up a whole bottle of hand sanitizer since they left the states. “And maybe a breath mint.”

“I guess you’re human after all,” he says, too low for anyone else to hear.

She gives him a halfhearted glare.

“What did you think I was?”

“It’s not so much what  I thought you were, but what you  thought you were. Some kind of elevated being, looking down on the rest of us peasants.”

“That’s some baseless, backwards thinking, Blake.”

“You’re some baseless, backwards thinking.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.” She tips her head back and closes her eyes and he tries not to stare at the long, graceful line of her neck. He’s always known she was pretty; it’s a hard fact to miss. Riling her up is like running his finger through a layer of perfect icing on a cake-- too delicious not to mess up.

“Need me to break my logic down so you can understand?”

“Who’s looking down on whom now, Blake?”

Of course her grammar would remain perfect despite the fact her brain must be half mush by now. Bellamy lets himself be grudgingly impressed since her eyes are closed and she can’t see his expression.

In fact, she looks to be falling asleep, relaxing until her arm is pressed up against his, her head lolling to one side until it’s almost on his shoulder. It’s the kind of thing a friend would allow, but they’re decidedly not friends so he nudges her.

“You’re supposed to stay up, remember? Gotta beat jet lag.”

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t. But you’re in my personal bubble.”

She looks pointedly down at his knees, stretched wide and definitely encroaching on her space.

“You’re one to talk.”

He grumbles but shrinks a little into his own space. For all he and Clarke squabble, she’s the person he knows best on this trip. He’s not expecting to spend a ton of time with her, but they will probably interact a fair amount and it seems safest to start with a truce.

He never thought he’d see the day when he voluntarily called a truce with Clarke Griffin, but he figures there’s a first time for everything.

 

* * *

 

Bellamy’s face when he finds out they’re partners is vindicating for Clarke. She doesn’t think he knows she requested him. He probably chalked it up to poor luck on his part. And she’s not going to enlighten him; he’d probably accuse her of actively trying to ruin his trip.

She isn’t. Really, she isn’t. But she barely knows the other students, and while she’s sure they had to be pretty impressive to get on the short list, she doesn’t want to get stuck with someone she can’t work with. This course could be extraneous for them; she knows Bellamy will take it seriously. That he cares with his whole being, and even if they disagree, she can work with that.

That it irks him so badly is... a perk.

“Looks like we’re stuck with each other for the next six weeks,” he sighs, holding his hand out to her. “Think we can manage a truce while we’re doing school shit?”

She smirks and grasps his hand in hers. It’s big, nearly enveloping hers, and while his handshake is much like him-- warm and firm and unyielding-- he doesn’t try to squeeze the life out of her like she expected.

“Truce,” she agrees.

They’re shouting at each other within ten minutes.

 

* * *

 

Despite the fact that they’re at each other’s throats half the time, Bellamy finds that it’s surprisingly easy to work with Clarke. 

Jerking her chain wouldn’t be as fun if she weren’t smart, he knows that much already. He also knows that she’s driven and focused, and he respects that. Seeing how some of the other teams operate, he thinks he’d risk Clarke sucking the fun out of the project rather than subjecting himself to someone who would leave him to do all the work on his own.

Sure, Clarke struggles to share the workload, but Bellamy doesn’t give her much of a choice. He lets his bull-headedness work for him for a change, and in the end it’s nearly an even split.

“I had an idea about how to present our research,” she says brightly, passing him a second mug of coffee. He’s pretty sure she brought her own press, but if she’s in a good enough mood sometimes she’ll share, so he’s not making fun of her about it. It’s far better than the stuff the program provides.

“We won’t start that for another couple of weeks at least.”

“Are you saying you  _ haven’t  _ already started planning that far ahead?”

Bellamy takes a sip instead of responding. He  has thought that far ahead. Of course he has. But he’d never willingly tell Clarke she's right.

“No,” he lies instead. “Unlike some people, I have an enriching, fulfilling social life.”

“Wow. Enriching  _ and _ fulfilling? Feels like you’re overselling it a little,” she sniffs. “And do you really count a singular hookup with Roma as a ‘social life’ when you’ve spent every other night in your room reading?”

Bellamy raises one eyebrow.

“Keeping tabs on me?”

“Trying to figure out whether I should invest in earplugs,” she retorts, her face flushing slightly. Though that could be the sunburn. “My room is right next door to Roma’s.”

“I can’t help how loudly she expresses her pleasure,” Bellamy grins, leaning back in his seat. “Not that you would know anything about that. The Proper Princess is probably quiet in bed.”

She’s definitely flushing now, though more with contempt than embarrassment, he thinks.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she says, her voice icy.

“What I’d  _ like _ is for you to chill a little bit so I can enjoy this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Feel free to ignore my free advice, but you could try to do the same.”

“What, sleep with Roma?”

“Or someone else,” he says, shrugging. “Might help you unwind.”

She scoffs and stands, crossing her arms, which is just unfair. He doesn’t need an extra reason for his eyes to want to stray to her chest.

“Thanks for your concern, but I don’t need any unwinding.”

He smirks and lifts his mug-- or is it hers?-- to his lips.

“Whatever you say, Princess.”

 

* * *

 

Clarke really means it when she tells him she doesn’t need help relaxing. But she can’t shake his words, can’t un-hear him calling this a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

It is. She knows that. It’s why she’s putting everything she’s got into the work. Once he says it, however, she realizes he’s infuriatingly right, that she’s buried herself in ancient Greece and not taken one moment to enjoy the modern-day version.

That’s likely why she accepts, the next time Roma invites her to come to a party with the other students and the younger staff on the dig. Clarke slips on a dress that Raven snuck into her bag and puts on makeup for the first time since they arrived. The relief she gets when she realizes Bellamy isn’t going, when she and Roma pass his room and see the light on inside, is undercut with a tiny glimmer of disappointment that she doesn’t dwell on. She tells herself she wanted to show him how wrong he was. That Clarke Griffin can be fun.

One of the archaeological interns, a girl named Niylah that Clarke has chatted with once or twice, draws Clarke onto the dance floor. She has more to drink than she probably ought, and when she pulls Niylah into a sloppy kiss at the end of the night, she’s too far gone to have Bellamy’s words ringing in her head, to think of proving him wrong-- or would it be proving him right? She isn’t thinking much of anything, and it’s liberating just to feel.

She feels like she's made of jello when she wakes up, Niylah still asleep in her bed. Clarke offers her a cup of coffee and they thank each other for a fun night and that’s that. They both head out to the site, both running a little bit behind.

“What’s this?” Bellamy gasps, when she tracks him down. “Clarke Griffin, late? I was thinking of sending out a search party.”

“I always knew you cared,” she coos, batting her eyelashes at him facetiously. “Don’t worry. It won’t happen again.”

“Wouldn’t mind if it did,” he shrugs. “What happened that caused this, and how can I make it happen again?”

“None of your business.”

She can feel his eyes on her back, a sensation she’s become too familiar with over the past couple of weeks, and wonders what he’s seeing.

“You took my advice, didn’t you?” He asks, gleeful. “Look at you. You’re all-- loose and soft and  _ late to work _ . You totally got some last night.”

“I said it was none of your business,” she seethes, reaching for the artifact in his hands since he’s too busy celebrating his imagined victory to be doing anything with it. He moves it out of her reach.

“Just admit I’m right. Then we can get back to work.”

“Over my dead body.”

He rolls his eyes and hands over the piece he’s holding.

“And she’s back.”

Clarke pauses and sighs, feeling the way her shoulders inch toward her ears and trying to get back to the zen she’d had, waking up sated.

“Fine. You’re right. I did need to unwind.” She can practically feel the shock radiating off him and scowls until his jaw snaps shut. “I’m not good at that, okay? Too many things in life are beyond my control, so I try to control what I can.”

She steels herself for the gloating but it doesn’t come. Instead, he shrugs and says, “I’m glad it worked out for you.”

Her eyes flick to his. They both seem at a loss. She broke the pattern and neither of them knows what to do now.

“Enough chit chat,” he says finally, nudging her in a manner that’s almost friendly. “Get back to work, Griffin. Thanks to you, we’re almost twenty minutes behind.”

She feels a smile forming at the corner of her mouth.

“Good thing I’m always thinking a few days ahead.”

 

* * *

 

Bellamy isn’t sure how it happened, but he almost feels fond of Clarke these days. Scratch that-- he knows how it happened. She offered up a very small kernel of herself and he couldn’t bring himself to squash it.

Either way, something between them in the air is different since that happened.

They still bicker, but he has to work to keep a smile off his face. He still does everything he can think of to get on her nerves, but it feels less like antagonizing his nemesis and more like pulling her pigtails on the playground. 

He thinks he’s not the only one. He knows she’s caught him checking out her cleavage when she does the indignant arms-crossing thing, and she’s started doing it a lot more. He crosses his arms right back, never having missed the way her eyes trace the curve of his bicep.

She’ll get in his face with her argument. He’ll stand closer than he needs to when he’s showing her something he found. She’ll lean over his shoulder while she tells him he’s doing something wrong, or he’ll loom over her while she’s eating with some fabricated excuse or other.

Sometimes he gets so distracted by the disdainful curl of her lip that he misses whatever jibe it’s tied to. He’ll get caught up wondering how she can smell so good in hundred-degree heat, wondering if there’s something in the Greek air that’s affecting his brain. Sometimes she gets so thrown off by his casual stretches, or the way he wets his lips when he’s thinking, that she forgets what she’s trying to say.

No, he thinks it isn’t just him.

But neither one of them is doing anything about it. He’s not even sure what he  _ wants _ to do about it. He has a feeling one night with Clarke wouldn’t be enough, but he isn’t sure the princess would deign to give him much more. 

Not that he thinks of her as a princess much these days. Over the past few weeks he’s seen a different side of her, handed out in short bursts. He now knows how her eyes shine when they get a particularly good idea, that she’ll drag him outside on a clear night so they can see the stars better than they ever could back home, how she snorts inadvertently at well-placed puns. He knows that she’s a master of the double entendre, that her poker face is rock solid, that she loses track of how much sangria she’s been drinking. That she’s a pretty adorable drunk.

He doesn’t know what to do with all this, already so much more of herself offered to him than he ever could have hoped for, if he’d known to hope for it.

So he’ll keep on brushing her skin when he reaches for her work, knowing how she shivers. He’ll keep forcing her to meet his gaze even when it’s more lustful than livid, knowing she won’t break eye contact first. And he’ll keep hoping that all his efforts are driving her as crazy as it’s driving him.

 

* * *

 

Bellamy is driving Clarke crazy.

More specifically, this game of chicken they have going on is making her lose her senses. And Clarke has no idea where it will end.

Their group gets to spend the last day of their trip in Athens, a day for sightseeing before they fly out of the next day, and Clarke finds herself walking out of the hostel’s breakfast with Bellamy as a natural reflex, something she’s grown surprisingly accustomed to over the past six weeks.

To her relief, he seems to have the same idea.

“I think we should start with the Agora and one or two of the lesser sites,” he says, looking down at the map in his hands. The hostel offered them free to everyone, but Clarke is pretty sure Bellamy is the only one who isn’t going digital. “And then we can grab lunch at one of these markets and hit up the Acropolis last.”

“Sounds good,” says Clarke, smiling to herself at his enthusiasm, his secret type-A personality, the fact that he wants to spend the day with her. “I’m not going to miss this heat when we get back home.”

Bellamy looks up, contemplating her instead of the map for a moment.

“Back home," he repeats. "You think we can keep this truce up?”

“I hope so,” she says, earnest. “Maybe we should make it a competition: see who can go the longest without breaking it.”

“Good thinking.” He grins and pushes his glasses up on his face. He looks like he belongs here, Clarke thinks. “I can definitely go longer than you can.”

She smiles back.

“There aren't enough words in the English language to tell you how wrong you are.”

 

* * *

 

Bellamy knows this day isn’t a date. Hell, he wasn’t even sure Clarke would agree to spend the day with him in the first place, so he didn’t really ask. Even so, he gets to spend his time nerding out over his favorite topic, in Europe, with a girl he really likes. No matter how platonic, he’s not sure any date he’ll ever go on will be able to top this.

Clarke lets him talk endlessly about the ruins they visit, even interjecting her own fun facts here and there. They wander through the markets together, looking at antique books and touristy magnets. She buys a shot glass for Raven and helps him pick out a pair of earrings for his sister.

“You getting any souvenirs for yourself?”

“Maybe a postcard, or something small,” he shrugs. “I don’t have a ton of extra room.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t try to smuggle an artifact out of the site.”

He smirks at her.

“Why do you think my suitcase is so full?” 

Hanging near the earrings, he spies golden headbands that look like laurel wreaths and takes one down, fitting it on her head as she scrunches her nose at him. 

“A crown for a princess."

Before he knows it, he’s got one in his own hair.

“There,” she says, smug. “Now we’re even.”

They don’t buy the crowns, but he lets her snap a selfie. Even asks her to send it to him later.

By the time they make it up the hill, and then up  _ more _ hill to the Acropolis, he isn’t sure any  _ day _ in his life will ever be able to top this, date or no date. Clarke Griffin has ruined him, and he doesn’t even care.

 

* * *

 

Clarke is about to snap.

The on-site flirting, teasing touches and heated glances and innuendos, that was one thing. This day has been something else, and she doesn’t want it to end. 

She expected to feel this way at the end of her trip, but about Greece. About the work. She didn’t expect to feel this way about Bellamy. Now they’re standing in the shadow of the Parthenon as the sun sets in the distance, by far the most romantic setting of Clarke’s life, and she’s had it. She wants to give in to what they’ve been dancing around all summer, wants to kiss Bellamy and hold his hand and make him promise this won’t be one of those ‘what happens in Greece’ things.

She doesn’t know how to tell him that, so she ends up blurting, “Did you know I requested to have you as my partner?” when he’s in the middle of a sentence.

He blinks, disoriented.

“Why?” He asks, like it’s the only word he can come up with.

“I thought we would work well together.” She can’t make herself look at him, so she watches the flow of tourists picking their way across the rock. “Are you upset?”

“No,” he says, surprised enough she has to turn to look at him. To study his face. He’s studying hers right back, so close she could count his freckles. “I’m glad you did.”

“Yeah?”

He reaches for her hand, linking his fingers with hers so that they lock together, filling in each other’s spaces, balancing each other out.

“Yeah,” he assures her, squeezing and then moving like he’s going to let go. Clarke grips tighter, and before she can talk herself out of it, rises up to meet him. It takes him a moment but soon he’s reciprocating, an easy give and take, a playful push and pull completely different from the dynamic of the past few weeks. She has to break the kiss to giggle.

“What?” He asks, smiling back at her.

“I guess we do work well together. I was right. Admit it.”

He starts toward the exit, shaking his head and pulling her along with their still-intertwined hands. “We may have a truce, but it’s going to take a lot more to get me to say that.”

“No problem,” Clarke assures him, still beaming from ear to ear, “I’ve got all the time in the world.”


	4. bad study habits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy accidentally summons a demon in the midst of his Latin homework. Clarke helps him get rid of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from anonymous on tumblr: "if you could somehow turn [that text post](http://katchyalater.tumblr.com/post/150239119418/thoodleoo-everyone-thinks-latin-is-a-hard) into a fluffy/cute bellarke prompt that would be incredible"

Bellamy isn’t sure how he ever handled crises in his life before he met Clarke.

Well, he’s pretty sure his coping mechanism involved overthinking everything, stretching himself thin until he was barely holding it together, and liberal amounts of swearing. But Clarke is one of those magical people who seems to always have her equilibrium, and so she has become Bellamy’s go-to person when he loses his.

(And when she loses her way, he’s there to balance her out. To be the steadying hand she needs. She somehow needs him as much as he needs her, and it never ceases to amaze him.)

Needless to say, when he accidentally summons a demon in the course of completing his Latin homework, his first instinct is not to run screaming from the room, but to calmly pick up his phone and dial his best friend’s number.

“I thought you were in study mode,” she says without preamble.

“I’m having…” Bellamy trails off as he studies the thing standing in the middle of his living room. It looks like a man-- like a boy, even. A sullen teenager, dressed like a hobo, arms crossed defiantly over his chest. The only reason Bellamy figures he’s a demon is because of his cloven hooves and the tiny flesh-colored horns protruding from his forehead. The greased-back hair and sudden materialization sealed his conclusion.

Luckily, Octavia is out and he has the apartment to himself. If the hobo-demon is going to wreak havoc, at least she’ll probably have a better chance of surviving.

“An orgy?” Clarke guesses, when he doesn’t know how to quite finish his sentence. “A beer? A stroke? Let me know if I’m getting close, here.”

“I’m having a situation,” he finally says. The hobo-demon snorts, a sound impossibly full of derision. “That I might need your help with. But I’m glad orgy was your first guess.”

“Color me intrigued.” He can already hear her shuffling around, the sounds of her preparing to leave her place, and he’s struck again by how grateful he is for Clarke. “You’re never this cryptic.”

“It’s kind of one of those things that needs to be explained in person,” he says, watching as the hobo-demon flops down in the armchair across the room. He seems bored, maybe even annoyed, but not malicious. Which is the best outcome Bellamy thinks he could hope for.

There’s a strange pause on the line.

“Clarke?”

“I’ll be over in twenty,” she promises, and hangs up.

He and the hobo-demon stare at each other for a moment, both waiting for the other to speak.

“You have a name?” The demon finally asks. Bellamy squints at him.

“Telling you my name won’t sign my soul away to you for eternity, right?”

The hobo-demon rolls his eyes.

“No, but it’s considered good manners to introduce yourself.”

“I didn’t think you’d care about manners. I’m Bellamy.”

“Murphy.”

Bellamy’s jaw drops, just a little.

“Your name is  _ Murphy _ ?”

“What’s it to you?” He demands, scowling. The lights flicker and Bellamy makes a mental note not to upset the-- Murphy. “What, you thought I’d be named Lucifer or some shit like that?”

“Well… yeah. But Murphy’s a nice name,” Bellamy hastens to add. Murphy relaxes back into the chair, mollified. 

“Damn straight.”

They sit in silence for another moment.

“Who was that on the phone?” Murphy asks. It hits Bellamy that while he took the time to be glad Octavia was out, he invited Clarke over to potentially be smited, or eaten, or soul-sucked, or whatever Murphy’s plan is, right along with him. Not an ideal situation. He likes her soul where it is.

He likes his own soul where it is too, but he doesn’t think she should be punished for his dumb ass accidentally summoning a demon at eight o’clock on a Wednesday.

“Friend of mine,” he answers, his throat suddenly dry. Murphy cocks his head.

“You have a thing for her?”

“What, are you a mind reader or something?”

“Nah, man,” Murphy smirks, the angles of his cheekbones and nose somehow sharpening with the movement. “You’re just obvious.”

“What can you do, then?” Bellamy challenges. Murphy preens, his lip curling and his chest puffing out.

“My particular talents lie in pissing people off.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to get that.”

They’re sitting in silence, half glaring at each other, when the door bursts open. They both jump, startled, as Clarke breezes in, a beatific smile on her face. It falls completely away when she catches sight of Murphy, turning to-- is that embarrassment? Followed quickly by confusion.

“You must be the friend,” Murphy says, standing again. Bellamy stands too, for lack of knowing what else to do.

“Clarke,” she says, her voice hollow, her eyes glued to his hooves. Murphy clears his throat.

“My eyes are up here,” he tells her, watching her gaze flick to his horns and then settle on his face. To Bellamy, he adds, “Manners.”

Bellamy gives Murphy the finger, which seems to delight him, and turns to Clarke.

“I was just doing my Latin homework, and I guess I did it wrong, because… well.” He gestures to Murphy, sheepish. “I don’t think my professor will accept ‘unintentional demon summoning’ as an excuse for why I didn’t finish my declensions.”

“Yeah, not finishing your homework is definitely your biggest problem here,” she says dryly, exchanging a look with Murphy. “Nerd,” she adds under her breath, and Murphy grins even bigger.

“I like her.”

“Yeah, she’s the best,” Bellamy agrees, the words popping out before he can reel them back in. Clarke turns a little pink, won’t meet his eye, but stays focused on the task at hand.

“Why are you here?” She asks Murphy. “Like-- I get that he summoned you. I guess I get that. But is there some sort of ritual we have to perform so you can go? Or some task you have to complete? What are we looking at, here?”

Bellamy feels a swell of relief even as Murphy looks vaguely amused by her line of questioning. Of course Clarke would know what to do, when Bellamy himself was too disoriented know where to begin. This is why he called her.

Murphy talks them through the release ritual, and within ten minutes Bellamy has a pentagram drawn in salt on his carpet, a horrendous mixture of summer- and winter- scented candles found in the bottom of Octavia’s closet, and a Latin incantation he hopes never to use again.

“Think this’ll do it?” He asks Murphy.

“Oh, I can leave anytime,” the jackass hobo-demon responds, giving Bellamy a little two-fingered salute as the lights flicker and he starts to disappear. “Have fun cleaning all this up, though.”

Bellamy stares down at the mess, takes a second to appreciate how good Murphy is at his job, and collapses on the couch next to where Clarke is already sitting, a shell-shocked look on her face.

“This is why I don’t take Latin,” she says. Bellamy laughs, relief unknotting ropes of tension he didn’t even know he had. She watches him laugh, the corners of her mouth twitching. A mere shadow of the smile she’d worn earlier.

“Sorry to ruin your night.”

“You didn’t ruin my night.”

“You sure?” He raises his hand to trace the curve of her lip, unthinking. It’s only when her eyes lock onto his that he realizes what he’s doing and drops his hand to his lap. “You looked really happy when you got here,” he says, a weak explanation at best.

“I thought the, uh,  thing  you invited me over to help you deal with-- I thought you needed help with a  _situation_. You know. In your pants.”

Her cheeks are rosy again, but she hasn’t dropped eye contact. Bellamy swallows, very aware of his facial muscles. Is this what his face normally feels like? Is he doing something weird with his expression? He can’t even tell.

“But you still came over,” he points out, wondering what they're supposed to do when they both feel off-balance. She finally drops her eyes to her lap.

“You said you had to explain it in person. I thought if it was just a booty call, you would’ve told me on the phone, but since you didn’t I figured you wanted to tell me-- I don’t know. It was probably stupid.”

“It wasn’t,” he says immediately. “It’s not stupid. I want to tell you. I don’t--” He wets his lips and her eyes track the movement, and the weird tension that Murphy left behind suddenly breaks. He leans forward, almost desperate to get his mouth on hers.

She laughs a little at his eagerness, sliding closer. Her fingers brush against his chin to change the angle a bit and then they’re  _ really _ kissing, deep and slow. Like there’s no need to rush. Like he might get to do this a lot.

“You were going to tell me something?” She asks against his lips, and he realizes at some point she pushed him flat on his back. Their legs are tangled together and she’s soft and perfect above him and he really isn’t inclined to pause, even to confess his feelings for her.

“Later,” he promises, flipping them over and pressing her down into the couch. She laughs.

“Fair enough.” His mouth moves to her neck, her jaw, her collarbone, anywhere they can reach as her fingers scratch lightly against his scalp. “For future reference, though?” Her breath catches as he finds a spot behind her ear. “You don’t have to go to such extremes to get a girl’s attention. Next time you can pretty much skip the demon-summoning step and go straight to this.”

His lips find hers again, gentle and sweet.

“I’m not planning for there to be a next time,” he whispers. 

Maybe he did know how to tell her, after all.

“Oh.” Her voice sounds strange, so he pulls back to look at her. The love in her eyes feels like a physical force, overwhelming and consuming at the same time.

"That okay with you?" He asks, strangely nervous. Her smile is brighter than he's maybe ever seen it as she pulls him back in.

"Yeah," she whispers. "That sounds good to me."


	5. "can i sit here? the other tables are full."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy is not having a great day, but it starts to look up when he takes shelter from the rain in a nearby coffee shop.

It’s days like today when Bellamy really regrets his decision to not own a car.

To be fair, his regret is not _limited_ to days like today, when the sky breaks out in a spontaneous thunderstorm, when he has foregone his umbrella, when every passing vehicle makes him shrink away for fear that they’ll hit the gutter puddles just right and spray dirty water all over his work clothes. He’s also regretful on days when the bus makes him late to work, when it’s unreasonably cold or unbearably hot outside, when he’s had it up to here with strangers being in his personal space.

At the end of the day, the extra cash in his bank account outweighs the convenience of having a car (which, considering city parking availability, is not that convenient anyway). But it _is_ one of those days, and Bellamy _has_ forgotten his umbrella, and a car _did_ spray him, so he’s not in the right frame of mind to remember why selling his car was a good thing.

To make matters worse, he arrives at the bus stop just as his bus pulls away from the curb. Early, for once.

His hands still in their attempt to wring out his clothes. The bus comes every twenty minutes, so one will be along soon, but the stop provides no shelter and-- he really is in a bad mood now.

“Screw it,” he mutters, and heads for the coffee shop down the street.

He’s never been inside, but he’s reasonably certain they have shelter, hot beverages, and napkins he can dry himself off with. Waiting there, even if he misses the next bus, sounds infinitely better than standing around in the downpour, miserable and angry.

It’s the obvious solution. Which is probably why it’s packed inside.

The baristas look harried, every last table is occupied, and the line is so long Bellamy nearly turns back. He heads for the bathroom first, hoping for paper towels or a hand dryer, but it’s got a line almost as long as the register.

Defeated, he grabs a wad of napkins and waits for his turn to order the biggest chai latte they can make. He almost doesn’t even care that it cost him five dollars. That’s his luck today.

He watches the room as he waits by the counter for his drink to be ready, but everyone appears perfectly content to stay where they are. They’re all waiting, as he is, for the rain to let up before they make their move.

Just then, a clap of thunder sounds, followed quickly by the flickering of the trendy exposed lightbulbs. Chatter in the shop ceases, everyone looking up and around as if to determine that they’re not just seeing and hearing things.

Bellamy’s eyes catch on the one person who didn’t look up: a blonde girl tucked into a corner, headphones in, eyes trained on the sketchbook in her lap. She’s hardly even using the four-person table she’s claimed, sitting sideways in her chair with her back to the wall, feet propped up on the chair next to her. All that’s on her table is an empty, oversized mug.

The part of him that’s already irritated wonders who she thinks she is, to be wasting so much precious space in a time like this.

The part of him that’s still a rational human being nudges him toward her, thinks she might not mind him using her table if she’s not going to.

He almost doesn’t know which part to listen to.

In the end, it’s the squelch of his soaked socks in his even more soaked shoes that makes the decision for him. She doesn’t see him approach, doesn’t seem to be aware of anything outside of her work. It’s single-minded focus like he’s never seen, and he’s begrudgingly impressed.

“Excuse me,” he says, rapping his knuckles on the table when she doesn’t hear. She blinks in surprise, looking up for the first time and freezing him on the spot with the bluest eyes he’s maybe ever seen.

She’s got charcoal smudges on her hands and knees and even a little on her chin. The perfect curve of her lip is offset by the tight set of her mouth as she takes him in. Pink streaks weave through her blonde braid and Bellamy can’t tell right away if it’s intentional or if she got sloppy with her paint. She’s _cute_ , and he’s a hot mess.

Well.

A wet mess.

A shivering, drenched, dirty, flustered mess.

“Did you need something?” She asks, taking one earbud out.

“Can I sit here?” He’s pretty proud of how normal he sounds. He definitely was not expecting to sound this normal. “The other tables are full.”

She looks around the room, as if to verify, and seems surprised at the chaos. He’s tempted to smile, which is really not something he thought he’d be feeling on a day like this.

“Oh, sure,” she says, swinging around to face forward. “Have at it.”

“Thanks.”

He sets his latte down carefully and sets his backpack down in the seat across from her. She pulls her mug toward her a little and he’s tempted to smile again. Like she could possibly be intruding in his space _less_.

He also removes his sweater, draping it across the back of his chair and hoping it dries out some before he has to put it back on. The t-shirt underneath is equally soaked, but he’s in public. There are only so many layers he can appropriately shed.

“I guess it’s really raining, huh?”

Bellamy lets loose a laugh, sharp and staccato, surprised that she’s even striking up a conversation. She’d definitely had the ‘don’t talk to me’ vibe going.

“Normally I’d make fun of you for cliche small talk about the weather, but I honestly believe you didn’t notice until I sat down.”

“Really?” Now she’s the one who seems amused. “Your first instinct upon meeting a stranger is to make fun of them?”

“Assume I have poor social skills. Shouldn’t be too much of a leap.” He tries a smile. It comes easier than he expected. “I’m Bellamy.”

“Clarke.”

He pulls his glasses off and moves to wipe the lenses with his shirt, but of course his shirt is thoroughly wet. He reaches for the napkins instead.

“Are you cold?” She blurts. The odd quality of her tone has him searching her expression, but she’s still a little blurry without his glasses on.

“A little,” he admits. “Hopefully I’ll get warmer as I dry off.”

She bends down to root around in her bag, emerging with a bundle of soft, dry fabric. A paint-splattered t-shirt from some local race he never heard of.

“You can change into that,” she says, and he has to put his glasses back on now. Has to see her face.

“You just carry an extra shirt around with you?”

“I use it as a smock. I got it a few sizes big so it would cover my clothes; it should fit you, I think.” She flushes. Bellamy is charmed.

“That’s really nice of you, but--”

“Take the shirt,” she insists, rolling her eyes. “Don’t be so stubborn you actually make yourself sick. I’m a doctor. I know these things.”

“Fine. I’ll take it. Thanks, Doc.”

She nods, blushing all the way up to her ears now.

Once he gets in front of the bathroom mirror, he sees what she was blushing about. His shirt and skin are both so wet, the fabric is basically plastered to his body. And a little see-through, being that the shirt is-- was-- white. He should feel embarrassed for being seen that way in public, but he mostly feels smug. He flustered the cute girl. Maybe his day is looking up.

A flash of lightning and a crash of thunder tell him that the storm is right on top of them, the rain still hammering down as he weaves toward his table. It makes the atmosphere inside the shop cozier. _Intimate_ , Bellamy thinks, sitting back down across from Clarke.

“That better?” She asks, determinedly not blushing.

“So much better. Thanks.” She nods and looks down at her hands, fingers tracing the spine of her now-closed sketchbook. “Mind if I ask what you were working on so intently you didn’t even notice the monsoon outside?”

To his surprise, she scrunches her nose up.

“You’ll laugh at me.”

“What would ever make you think that?”

“I assume you have poor social skills,” she parrots back to him, her voice so dry he has to laugh. Pink returns to her cheeks, though she looks less embarrassed than she does pleased. “Also, they’re a little... different.”

He nods, taking a longer sip of his drink.

“Well, I get not wanting to share your art with a complete stranger, so no pressure. But I wouldn’t laugh. I teach Kindergarten, so I’ve spent years perfecting my ‘that looks awesome’ expression and learning how to not crush someone’s creative spirit.”

Her lips twist to one side, like she wants to smile despite herself.

“You're a Kindergarten teacher?”

“I know it doesn’t look like I’m an adult who has my life together, but I promise you my kids, at least, respect me. Then again, if I ask them how old they thought I was, half of them would say sixteen and the other half would say sixty--”

“Well, that’s a five-year-old for you,” she grants, biting her lip. Bellamy isn’t sure if she’s holding back a smile, deciding whether to show him her artwork, or just actively trying to distract him. “Now I’m really not sure if I can show you what I was working on.”

“Why not?”

“Because your profession is so-- wholesome.”

Bellamy stares at her for a second, and then he feels his own flush coming on as he connects the dots, his grin widening with glee.

“It’s not what you think,” she rushes to say.

“It’s not?”

“No.” She snags a crumpled napkin and throws it at him, like she can knock the smug look off his face. “I'm not drawing porn or anything, I just-- I make greeting cards with dirty jokes on them.”

“For fun?”

Another napkin comes flying at him, hitting him in the shoulder this time.

“I sell them online. I started it in med school to help pay for textbooks and stuff. It’s a more profitable business than you would think.”

“It sounds like it would be pretty profitable,” he admits. He’s still grinning. Somehow this crappy day turned into a great one. “Can I see what you were working on now?”

She rolls her eyes but slides him her sketchbook, monitoring his expression carefully as he flips through them. The pictures themselves aren’t that bad, mostly objects that, at a glance, look innocent. It’s not until he reads the text written in pencil at the bottom of the pages that he's able to connect them to the joke.

“What’s this one?” He asks, tapping a picture of a taco. It’s only half-finished, no explanation written anywhere.

“That one is popular,” she grins “Are you a tortilla? Because I want to flip you over and eat you out.”

Bellamy chokes on absolutely nothing, Clarke spiraling into laughter across from him.

“That’s pretty good,” he admits, closing the book and passing it back to her. "I may never look at tacos the same way again.”

“Mission accomplished.” She flips to a blank page, uncapping her pen and starting to draw. “I’ll give you the link to my store. You can buy a card for your significant other.”

“I would, but I don’t have one,” he says, smiling into his drink.

“Good to know.”

She sounds nonchalant, but the way she carefully doesn’t look at him makes her seem anything but casual. He’s not sure if she’s closing herself off to conversation, though her earbuds remain on the table, but then she asks if his students did anything funny today and, well, he has a million of those stories. 

She keeps working while he talks, reacting with enthusiasm and offering her own stories when he trails off into silence. He misses the next bus, and the one after that, but he doesn’t mind. Clarke is fun to talk to on top of being nice to look at. It doesn't feel like an inconvenience.

At some point, though, he does actually have to get home. He packs up as slowly as he can, hoping irrationally that Clarke will decide she needs to leave to and walk out with him. But she stays where she is, waving off his offer to return the shirt (and foiling his attempt to get her number in the process), and he heads out with a dorky wave.

He’s tempted to make that shop his regular coffee place, hoping to run into her again. That thought, and the memory of her bright laugh and surprising sense of humor, carries him all the way home.

After he changes into sweatpants, he starts pulling books and papers out of his bag, spreading them carefully across his kitchen table to let them dry. One of the papers mixed in with his school things is different-- dimensions slightly bigger, weight slightly heavier. He doesn’t recognize it.

When he turns it over, a smile spreads slow and warm across his face.

It’s a little drawing of a bus, unmistakably Clarke’s, with words penned in at the bottom: _Sorry you missed your bus. Here’s hoping you don’t miss your next connection._  And then, underneath that, her number.

He’s still smiling as he pulls out his phone.

**Me:**  Did you just come up with that on the spot?

**Clarke:**  I’m a professional, Bellamy.  
This is Bellamy, right?

**Me:**  Right. Of course, you’d know that if you let me ask for your number earlier.

**Clarke:**  I had a *plan*  
I put in so much effort.  
But don’t worry. I’ll let you make the next move.

**Me:**  Have dinner with me on Friday?

**Clarke:**  Friday is good :)  
How do you feel about tacos?

**Me:**  Let’s see how dinner goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ngl i was worried this was too cheesy, but i like cheese so here we are


	6. "i'm not jealous."/"when i picture myself happy... it's with you."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy and Clarke aren't dating anymore, but he can't not notice her. Especially when she seems upset.

He finds her in the backyard, melancholy and listless on the swings, as he knew he would.

He’s tried to shake his Clarke-oriented instincts, tried to avoid situations like these-- one-on-one and emotion-laden-- since they broke up. But they’d been determined to stay friends, and he’s never been able to resist her pull, so here he stands.

“Hey.”

Her eyes are unfocused and glassy, from dysphoria or alcohol, Bellamy isn’t certain. He circles around behind her and reaches for the chains of her swing, gently drawing her back and then letting her go.

Her bare feet trail in the sand, dragging and pushing, shoes kicked off to one side. Every time she comes back to him, his hands land on her shoulders, her back, her sides. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

“You alright?”

“I’m ecstatic.”

“Clarke.”

She draws a deep breath. It’s maddening that he can’t see her face, but also maybe better for his heart this way.

“Wells and Raven are getting _married_.”

“I know. I was at the party.” 

Bellamy can hear strains of music wafting across the lawn from Wells’s dad’s house. He’d like to say it’s the fanciest party he’s ever been to, but he did attend Clarke’s mom’s wedding, and he hopes for his own sanity that he’ll never be invited anywhere fancier than that. Even so, the house Wells grew up in feels like a mansion compared to the two-bedroom apartments of Bellamy’s childhood. 

He’d been so busy being uncomfortable in the environment that he’d almost missed Clarke slipping away after the toasts. Almost.

He isn’t questioning whatever deep-seated instinct told him to follow, to make sure she’s okay. He’d had the same instinct after she’d stormed out, after the fight that ended it all. 

It wasn’t anybody’s fault. He started it, she ended it. He was angry that she made decisions-- like applying to a residency program hours away-- on her own, and accused her of acting like she was single. She bit out that maybe it would be easier on both of them if she _was_  single.

The words took both of them by surprise. He knows it isn’t what either of them wanted, but he wants more for her to be happy. Which is why he’s here, at a neglected play set in the dark, instead of at the party.

“I saw you slip away,” he adds.

“I really am happy for them.” Her voice is small, petulant almost. She may not be _that_ drunk, but this certainly isn’t Sober Clarke.

“You can feel more than one thing at a time.”

“I’m not jealous,” she says sharply, flinging sand with her toes when she swings forward.

“I didn’t suggest you were.” He keeps his tone mild.

“I just needed to reorient myself.” She pauses, then, as if making her mind up. “I always thought you and I would be the first ones in our friend group to get married.”

Bellamy swallows, missing the rhythm on his next push so that her dress merely brushes against his fingertips before she slips from his grasp.

“Double wedding?” He guesses, suddenly hoarse.

She drags her heels, bringing herself to such a sudden stop she nearly bowls him over. His hands instinctively move to the chains, landing on top of her grasp. She twists to look at him, tilting her head up until it rests in the crook of his arm. Trusting implicitly that he’ll be there to hold her up, she leans back against his chest. Their faces are so close he can feel her warm breaths, jarring in the crisp air.

“No, Bell. Our wedding. Wells walking me down the aisle, Octavia and my mom fighting over every last detail, Murphy refusing to RSVP just to ‘keep the mystery alive,’ you and me making promises to love each other forever.” Her voice wobbles a little. “I still want that.”

Longing spikes through him at her words, sweet and soft, even as the booze on her breath sends disappointment barreling along right behind.

“Come on,” he says, moving his hand to her side and squeezing gently. “Let’s get you home.”

She leans back into his hold, letting him tug her backward off the swing, clutching at his shoulder when she can’t find her equilibrium right away. Keeping ahold of him even when she seems to be able to walk on her own.

He doesn’t separate himself from her grasp. The past month, ever since they fell apart, has been awful. He misses her in ways he didn’t know he could miss a person. Though he knows he doesn’t get to keep her, though he knows he doesn’t even really have her in the state she’s in, though he knows it’ll rip open new wounds to let go of her, he lets himself indulge for now. For the short walk back to the house, he can let himself be soothed by the scent of her shampoo, the softness of her body, the way she leans into him.

They track down the happy couple to say goodbye, only disentangling long enough for Clarke to pull Wells into an embrace. She clings to her friend and he laughs softly, spitting her hair out of his mouth and combing it back as they exchange words too soft for Bellamy to hear.

“You got this?” Raven asks, sidling up next to him. She’s twirling her engagement ring-- lunar rock wrapped in steel, because Wells knows what she’s about-- like she has been all night, and sipping cheap vodka from a champagne glass that might be made of real crystal. Her eyes are on Clarke, but her shoulder is pressed up against Bellamy’s like she’s ready to jump in front of a metaphorical bullet for him.

“Yeah,” he says, pressing back with his shoulder. “I’ll get her home. I’m pretty much a pro at this by now.”

“I meant, are you going to fall apart when you get home. Do I need to tell Octavia-- well, maybe Lincoln-- to take care of _you_ once you’re done taking care of _her_?”

“I’ll be fine,” he sighs. Not strictly true, but faking it until he makes it is a thing, right? “Sorry we hijacked your night with our personal drama.”

“This isn’t my night,” she snorts, gesturing to the lavish decor and the food that’s so elegant nobody’s even touching it. “This is Thelonius’s night. And she held it together until after her mom left, which is honestly more than I dared to hope for.”

Bellamy half laughs, his response cut off as Wells passes a quickly fading Clarke back to him.

“Congrats again,” he tells them, jerking his head back just in time to avoid Clarke’s flailing wave.

He gets her in the car with minimal trouble and she’s asleep before they’ve even hit the highway. It’s a familiar route back to the apartment they used to share. His name is still on the lease, right beside hers. His furniture and nonessential belongings still live there, until he can figure out somewhere else to put them.

Until the part of him that still thinks he and Clarke might find their way back to each other stops hoping.

She wakes up when the car stops, quieter and more balanced now. Her shoes dangle from his left hand, his right tensed by her lower back, ready to steady her if she stumbles. She doesn’t.

“Will you stay over?” She croaks, the first words she’s spoken to him since she mentioned their hypothetical wedding.

He should say no, should go back to O’s couch. He knows it’ll be uncomfortable between them the next morning, without the blanket of night and alcohol between them.

Instead he nods.

At least he has enough self-preservation left not to climb in behind her when he tucks her into their-- her-- bed. She curls around the pillow that used to be his, breathing deeply, and he makes himself take the couch. He falls asleep thinking about the girl in the next room.

When he wakes the next day, it’s all too easy to fall back into his routine. Brush teeth, put contacts in (so that’s where he left that last box), make enough coffee to caffeinate a small army, settle in on the couch with a pop-tart and ubiquitous NCIS reruns.

He thinks again about leaving. Puts one shoe on, even. But drunk Clarke has never said anything sober Clarke didn’t mean, at least a little, and the seed of hope in the back of his mind is starting to take root.

He hears her moving around sometime before noon, the telltale sounds of tripping over her shoes, of washing last night’s makeup off, of rifling through the dryer for a clean pair of underwear. When she emerges, she looks tired and a little scared, Jake’s overlarge college sweatshirt swamping her body, mug gripped tightly in hand. She’s the best thing he’s ever seen.

“Morning.” 

“Hi.” She tucks her feet underneath her, curling up in the armchair across the room. “You stayed.”

“You asked.”

She lets out a long breath.

“I meant what I said last night.” Her eyes flicker up to his and trap him where he sits. He couldn’t move if he wanted to. “I don’t know how to picture my future without you in it.”

He scoffs involuntarily and her eyes narrow.

“I’m serious. I can see myself with six cats, and my dream job, enough time in the day to both paint and sleep, and the ability to eat as much tiramisu as I want without gaining weight, but-- When I picture myself happy... it’s with you.”

“Me too.” He braces his elbows on his knees, leaning forward to scrub his hands over his face. “Everything you said last night-- my sister, your mom, asshole Murphy, loving each other forever-- I want all of that, too. And maybe we can still have that, one day. But--”

“I want it _now_. I want to make decisions about my future around you, Bellamy. You’re a factor, whether you like it or not.”

“And I want us to make decisions together.” He clasps his hands, knuckles white with the force of it. “It is _your_  future, but-- it’s also _our_  future. If we’re not on the same page, we’re just back where we started.”

She studies him for a moment, pensive.

“Okay.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Okay?”

She sets her mug down and gets up, shyly stepping around the coffee table and settling in his lap. His hand finds her hip reflexively, her arms looping behind his neck. She rests her forehead against his and his eyes fall closed. 

“You can talk to me about stuff,” he says, because if this is going the way he thinks it’s going, he needs to know they’re moving forward and not back. “I _want_  you to talk to me about stuff.”

“I was going to talk to you about the residency, but-- I didn’t know what I wanted, yet.”

“You can tell me that too.” His thumb starts stroking her hip of its own accord. “You don’t have to have a presentation ready, defending your argument. Half the time when we’re arguing, I don’t know what my position is until we’re halfway into it.”

“I knew it,” she laughs, twirling her fingers in his hair. He squeezes her knee.

“Like you don’t do that.”

“I do. Not usually with stuff this important, but... I can get better at that.”

“We’ll work on it.”

He feels, more than sees, her smile as she leans forward to press her lips to his. Bellamy loses track of the conversation, loses track of basically everything except Clarke, as they make up for the past three weeks. The seed of hope is blooming in full now, green and alive, bursting in his chest.

They do work on it. They do better. They grow together.

And a few years later, as Bellamy watches Clarke walk toward him on Wells’s arm, holding a bouquet Octavia picked out and Abby paid for, with Murphy definitely (probably) somewhere in the audience, he can’t think of many times she’s looked happier. He resolves to make her smile like that as much as he can, as often as he can. It only gets better from here.


	7. "why is it always you?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke orders a lot of pizza. Bellamy delivers a lot of pizza.

She’s maybe a little bit drunk the first time.

Ordering a pizza online is trickier when she’s having trouble seeing straight, but talking on the phone is the _worst_ even when she’s sober and has full control over her speech.

It would be twice as mortifying since Kane’s Pizza, right around the corner, is a small family establishment who keeps track of their regulars, and not a corporate behemoth who would forget her as soon as she hung up.

She has enough of her wits about her to know that online is safest.

Still, it’s a relief when she finally gets to the last page. Hitting the button to ‘confirm order’ is the best feeling, and she rewards herself with another glass of wine as she cues up Hocus Pocus.

Moving across the country for her grad program was a good life decision-- Clarke needed to get away, to start new after the heartbreaking way things ended with Lexa, and she’s found that here-- but it meant leaving all her friends behind, and that’s been rough. Lonely.

To combat it, she and Wells and Raven have set up long-distance movie nights, where they’ll all put in the same film and live-tweet their reactions to each other. Tonight they’re on classic Halloween movies.

Clarke has been drunk since halfway through Halloweentown.

She didn’t mean to get this drunk this quickly. Normally, Raven or Wells would have cut her off. But they’re on the other side of the country, and she hasn’t eaten much today. Hence the pizza.

By the time the doorbell rings, Raven and Wells are back online.

**@princessgriffin:** @ThatsSoReyes @jahaha theres smoeone @the door! !! itsth e sandreson sisters!

**@ThatsSoReyes:** @princessgriffin @jahaha don’t jump to conclusions drunky. didn’t you order a pizza?

**@jahaha:** @princessgriffin @ThatsSoReyes not a problem if it’s witches. u r an adult they won’t eat u #ilovedrunkclarke #whydoialreadyhavethattag

The prospect of food brightens her up and she pops up off the couch, only stumbling a little in the blanket she’d cocooned herself inside of. The doorbell has rung two or three times at this point, and when she finally breaks free-- cursing in what she hopes is a quiet tone-- and makes it to the door, she’s trying her best to look apologetic.

“Hi, I’m so sorry,” she giggles, swinging the door open, and gasping dramatically when she sees who’s behind it. “ _Bellamy_?”

“Hey there.” He’s grinning ear to ear. Maybe her cursing and struggling wasn’t as quiet as she’d hoped. “You order a pizza?”

“You deliver pizzas?”

“Gotta pay off student loans somehow,” he shrugs. She nods knowingly, even though her mother paid for her schooling and left Clarke virtually debt-free. She knows she’s lucky that her mom could do that, but she’s always more aware of her privilege around Bellamy Blake.

He’s in her grad program, a year ahead of her as they both work towards their Masters in political science, and his entire thesis-- which she hears about ad nauseum each week-- revolves around the wealth gap in the United States. It took a while for her to earn his respect, but she fought for it, and she thinks she has it. He’s one of her favorite classmates at this point: fun to fight with, fun to trade knowing looks with, someone she trusts to give her real and thoughtful criticism when she needs to work out an argument.

They’re not _friends_. Clarke doesn’t really have any of those here. But he’s probably the closest thing she’s got in a twenty-minute radius.

So she gives him a bright smile as he stands in her doorway, looking unfairly hot holding food and wearing a dumb uniform. He continues to look amused.

“That’s twelve fifty,” he says, after they’ve stood in silence for a moment.

“Ohhh.” Clarke’s eyes widen. “Right. Hang on, I dunno where my wallet is.” She turns and scans the room, perplexed.

“Maybe in your backpack?” He says, pointing.

“Yes,” she crows, drawing the ‘s’ out as long as she can. “You’re a genius!”

“I’m definitely reminding you that you said that next time we fight in class,” he says, stepping leaning against her doorframe and watching as she fumbles with the zipper. “Need help?”

“No, I got this.” With a concentrated effort, she gets the bag open. Instead of trying to sort out the right bills, she hands him the whole wad of cash. He passes some of it back to her. “Did you tip yourself?”

“Two dollars.”

She frowns.

“I can’t do math right now. What is that?”

“Somewhere between fifteen and eighteen percent.”

“Take three,” she insists, shoving a bill into his hand.

“That’s a five,” he laughs, swapping it for another. “Happy now?”

“Not until I get my pizza.”

“Knew I was forgetting something.” The box is warm in her arms, his smile, warmer. “You all set?”

“I’m watching Halloweentown with my friends,” she blurts out. He makes a show of looking around at her empty apartment.

“If you say so.”

“No, they’re not-- here.”

“Obviously.”

She frowns. Of course he couldn’t make this easy on her. “You’re an asshole.”

He barks out a laugh. “Obviously. So where are they?”

“Back east.” The wistfulness in her voice is plain, even to her alcohol-addled mind. She shakes her head, hoping that will clear it some. It just makes her dizzy. “Anyways. Food.” She holds up the pizza. “Probably a good thing.”

“Yeah.” His smile is kinder now. “Maybe put the wine away until you have a little more on your stomach. Or not. Who am I to tell you how to live your life?” He snaps his fingers. “Oh, that’s right. I’m a genius. You said so yourself.”

“Good _bye_ , Bellamy.”

“Have a good night, Clarke.”

* * *

“Wow, I only had to ring once,” he teases when she opens the door.

She rolls her eyes. After what she’s come to call the pizza delivery incident, she expected to face a lot of jokes about being a lush when she saw him in class. And she has, but he’s also been kind of nice about it. Sitting beside her instead of across the room, knowing expressions turning into snarky comments, arranging times to study together in the library. She even has his phone number now. It’s like she has made a real friend.

“Thought I’d try not embarrassing myself this time.”

“That’s a shame.” He passes her the receipt for her to sign. “It was pretty fun to see you let loose.”

“You’re just saying that because I’d never call you a genius unless I was under the influence.”

“Nah,” he says lightly, handing over the pizza box. “Not just. You were cute.” Before she can respond, he’s backing away, hands tucked into his pockets. “I gotta get back, we’re pretty busy tonight. Enjoy the pizza.”

“Thanks,” she says, feeling like she’s playing catch-up with this conversation. “You too.” His smirk causes her to flush, an instantaneous, involuntary response. “I mean--”

“I know what you mean.” He says, still smirking.

“You’re insufferable.”

She can still hear his laughter after he’s disappeared from her sight.

* * *

“No onions tonight. Hot date?”

“Stop creeping on my order, Bellamy.”

He grins and hands her some change, which she refuses to take.

“You don’t have to tip me extra just because you know me.”

“I’m tipping you a normal amount,” she shoots back. He scoffs.

“Clearly you’ve never worked in the food service industry.”

“I have, actually. I was a hostess all through undergrad. Which is why _that_ \--” she reaches out to curl his fingers around the cash in his open palm-- “is a normal amount for me.”

“Appreciated, then.” He pockets the bills and pauses, sticking his head further into the room. “Are you watching _The Fast and the Furious_?”

“It was my friend Raven’s turn to pick the movie,” Clarke says, scrunching her nose.

“Not a fan?”

“Car chases bore me.”

He chuckles, low, and ducks his head. Like he’s embarrassed that she made him laugh. “Then yeah, these are the wrong movies for you.”

“Our other friend is coming up with the drinking game as we speak,” she assures him.

He doesn’t bother trying to hide his grin, presumably as he thinks back to the first time he’d delivered her a pizza. But all he says is, “I’ll make sure to take extra good notes at our nine a.m. tomorrow, in case you don’t make it.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” He raps his knuckles on the doorframe and gives half a wave. “See you around.”

“Later.”

If she’s distracted enough that she smiles through the rest of the movie, well, it’s really good pizza. And he’s a good friend. It’s totally understandable.

* * *

**@jahaha** : @princessgriffin please tell @ThatsSoReyes if she picks the sequels for her next seven choices she’s out of the club

**@ThatsSoReyes** : @jahaha @princessgriffin u know u love me *kissy face emoji*

**@princessgriffin:** @ThatsSoReyes @jahaha keep me out of this #thirdwheeling

**@ThatsSoReyes:** @princessgriffin awww don’t be jealous babe

**@princessgriffin:** @ThatsSoReyes @jahaha me and my pizza are very happy together

* * *

“ _A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving_?” He guesses before she can even get a hello out.

“Is identifying movies through a closed door a marketable skill?”

“Not particularly.”

Whatever she’s about to say is cut off by her stomach making a weird noise. His eyes flicker down-- past where gazes tend to linger-- and then back up to her face. He presses his lips together like he’s trying not to smile.

“Shut up,” she grumbles. “I’m hungry.”

“Yeah, I gathered that from the extra-large pizza. I’m not judging, but those are usually ordered by big groups of people.”

She shrugs. “I wanted to have some left over. I’m not expecting many places to be open over Thanksgiving break and I’d rather not cook if I don’t have to.”

To her surprise, he doesn’t laugh, doesn’t make a joke about the building being safer if she stays away from her stove, but instead clenches his jaw.

“You’re eating cold pizza for Thanksgiving?”

“I might warm it up.”

“Not the point.” He looks relaxed-- arms hanging at his sides, weight back on one foot, head tilted slightly-- but there’s tension in his frame that Clarke hasn’t seen aimed at her since the first few weeks of class. “How come you aren’t going home?”

“Too expensive to fly for such a quick trip. It’s not a big deal, Bellamy.” She shifts to the left so she can make him look her in the eye, tries to look convincingly fine. “Don’t worry about me. I’m set.”

“It’s just-- It’s sad.”

“Thanks,” she snaps, suddenly defensive. He does relax now, sympathy etched on his face.

“I didn’t mean--”

“I know,” she says, with less heat this time. “Seriously, don’t worry about it.”

“Okay.” He backs up into the hallway, looking more awkward than she’s ever seen. “Have a nice weekend.”

“Enjoy the holiday.”

He’s still standing there as she shuts the door, and something in her chest flutters uncomfortably at the expression on his face. She tries to tell herself it’s not weird, that they’ll be back to normal next week in class. But she knows she’ll feel a lot better once she knows for certain that’s true.

* * *

The doorbell interrupts her _Luke Cage_ binge, and she’s cranky enough from isolation and homesickness that she flings open the door with a scowl and demands, “What?” before she even sees who is on the other side.

“Happy Thanksgiving to you, too,” Bellamy says, giving her half a smile. He’s wearing a cable-knit sweater and glasses and looks like he stepped straight out of a fall catalog.

“Thanksgiving was yesterday.”

“Then Happy day-after-Thanksgiving.” He tilts his head. “Mind if I come in?”

“Be my guest.”

He hands Clarke the shopping bag he’d been holding so that he can take his shoes off just inside the door.

“What’s this?” She asks, resisting the urge to snoop further.

“I brought leftovers from my mom’s house.” He takes the bag back and leads her into the kitchen. She follows helplessly, unsure what else she ought to do.

“I usually spend the day after Thanksgiving drinking and pigging out and watching Christmas movies,” he explains, wedging plastic containers into the random and limited free space in her fridge. “And I thought-- who do I know that’s in town and likes to do all of those things?”

She bites the inside of her lip, trying to keep her smile small.

“Those are some of my favorite things to do.”

His answering smile is unrestrained.

“That’s what I thought.”

Mid-afternoon sometime they spread out a reheated feast on Clarke’s coffee table, her oversized blanket spread across both their laps. They pass a wine bottle back and forth and reminisce about family traditions and holiday traumas past.

“We usually celebrate with my best friend and his family,” she explains, wondering how Raven is faring in her place this year. “His dad is big into the wholesome, American Dream, picture perfect vibe.”

“Does he make you go around and say what you’re thankful for before he lets you touch the food?” Bellamy guesses, reaching across her for the mashed potatoes.

“Every year.”

“Okay, so…” he nudges her with his knee. “What are you thankful for?”

You, she wants to say. It’s on the tip of her tongue. He’s flushed from the wine and the warmth of her apartment, relaxed and comfortable in her space. Her first friend here. The guy who wouldn’t let her spend her holidays in a pity party for one.

“I’m thankful I don’t have to go through that charade,” she says instead, gratified when he laughs and shakes his head.

She misses her friends, her mom, less than she used to, she realizes. The West Coast is starting to feel like home. Sure, she likes the city, likes her program, likes her other friends, but-- Bellamy Blake is part of it too.

And she’s not sure she’s quite ready to recognize that.

* * *

**@ThatsSoReyes:** @princessgriffin how’s #pizzgiving2k16?

**@jahaha:** @princessgriffin i think what @ThatsSoReyes means to say is, we miss you

**@ThatsSoReyes:** @princessgriffin @jahaha no what i mean to say is both your parents like me best #everybodysfavorite #suckit

**@princessgriffin:** @ThatsSoReyes @jahaha miss you guys too, but #pizzgiving2k16 is starting to look up

* * *

Clarke does fly back for Christmas, only to find a dissonance between what she thinks of as home and how she knows home to feel. She spends as much time as she can with her mom and her friends, but it’s not as hard to say goodbye to them, this time around.

_Maybe you’re growing up_ , Bellamy says when she texts him from the airport. They’ve been texting throughout the break. Raven gave her endless shit for it. _Or maybe all the sunshine out here is going to your head._

**Me:** my mom did tell me I look blonder

**Bellamy:** That’s not a word.

**Me:** *middle finger emoji*

**Bellamy:** I take it back. Definitely not the growing up thing.

She texts him again when she lands, wondering why she’s exhausted when all she’s done today is wait in lines and sit in one uncomfortable seat after another. He floats a theory that airlines pump sedatives through their air systems in an effort to keep people calm when defying all principles of physics. Bickering about how and if that would work carries them through her taxi ride home, with a brief pause only while she calls in to order a pizza, too worn out to even attempt to fend for herself.

She hasn’t been home ten minutes when the bell rings. An involuntary grin affixes itself to her face and as soon as the door is open, she’s yanking the pizza out of Bellamy’s hands so she can fling herself into his arms for a hug.

He laughs, shocked, but after a beat, wraps his arms around her in return.

“Good to see you too.” He sounds a little breathless, possibly because she’s squeezing the life out of him, so she loosens her hold and steps back. His eyes rove across her face like they’ve been separated for years, instead of a week and a half. “That would have been awkward if it was another delivery driver.”

She frowns. “You guys have _other_ delivery drivers?”

He bends down to pick up the fallen receipt. It seems like he’s avoiding her eyes, but the back of his neck is red enough to give him away. He’s blushing.

“I’ve never had anyone else deliver my pizza from Kane’s,” she realizes. “Why is it always you?”

He wets his lips, and her eyes track the motion, causing him to laugh a strangled laugh.

“I might, uh-- I might have flagged your address so I could make sure… We usually only do it for problematic customers, but…” He rubs the back of his neck and sighs. “I’m not even on shift tonight,” he says finally. “I knew you would probably call in, and...I wanted an excuse to see you. _Shit._ Do you ever not realize how creepy you’re being until you hear it out loud?”

Clarke laughs and steps back into his space, not touching him, but almost.

“You’re not working?”

“No.” She can feel his breath when he speaks, he’s that close.

“You want to come inside?”

“Yeah?” He draws it out, an unasked question on his lips. She rises on her toes and kisses it gently away.

“You don’t need an excuse to see me.”

“Awesome,” he breathes, grinning. “You want to get dinner sometime?”

“Sure.” She steps back to let him in. “Maybe even something other than pizza.”

 

Yeah, she thinks she’s adjusting to her new life just fine.


	8. Clarke's neighbor helps her put together a costume for her kid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from @callmehux: "Clarke's new neighbor Bellamy is horrified when Clarke decides to buy a store-bought costume for her little kid and helps her put together something awesome."
> 
> I tweaked it a little, but it's mostly what you'd expect: fluffy, Halloween-y kidfic

Growing up, Bellamy’s mom never got that into decorating for the holidays. They had a fake tree and stockings they would hang on the wall, but that was as much effort as she cared to put in.

When Octavia was old enough, she wondered why their house was so boring (her words) in comparison with all the others on their street. Bellamy shelled out some of his carefully budgeted allowance to buy some multicolored lights that he strung haphazardly across the bush by their front door, and called it a day.

Living with Miller is pretty much the same way, eleven months of the year. Neither of them can be bothered to do much in the way of thematic decorating, especially when considering the limited storage space in their side of the duplex. 

Come October, however, Miller becomes a man on a mission. And that mission is to be the scariest house on their block.

“Found the cobwebs.”

“Nice.” Bellamy grabs the box Miller slides his way. There’s hardly room for one of them to get into the crawl space, and since this started as his roommate’s crusade, he lets him do the dirty work. Literally. “I think the tombstones are in the back corner. Oh, and keep an eye out for a femur missing from one of the skeletons.”

“Got it,” Miller grumbles. “Next year you’re doing this part.”

“What’s that? I can’t hear you,” Bellamy yells over his shoulder, laughing at Miller’s muffled curses as he carries the biggest box down the stairs and into the yard.

“Heads up!” Someone calls when he opens the door. He ducks reflexively, just in time to see a frisbee sail through the space where his head would have been.

“Oops!”

He plucks the frisbee out of the bushes and looks over to the other side of the yard, where his neighbor-- the single mom who lives in the other side of the duplex with her kid-- is standing with a hand clapped over her mouth. It could be shock, or even horror at the narrowly-avoided accident, but her blue eyes shine with mirth. He’s pretty sure she’s trying to rein in a laugh as her seven-year-old jogs over to grab the frisbee from him.

“Sorry Mr. Blake!”

Bellamy never had Brice in his class-- he and Clarke, his mom, didn’t move here until the end of last school year-- but some of the advanced reading groups from the second grade buddy up a couple of times a week to read to Bellamy’s Kindergartners, and Brice loves to brag to them that he lives next door to their teacher.

“No harm, no foul.” He tosses the frisbee the last few feet. “Maybe you can give your mom some pointers on how to aim better, though.”

“I’m trying,” Brice says, rolling his eyes and sounding very put-upon.

“It’s not his fault I have no athletic talent,” says Clarke, coming up behind her son. The resemblance between them is subtle, but it’s there-- the same blue eyes, the same dimple in his chin, the same set of his jaw.

Bellamy hasn’t met Brice’s dad, Wells, but he knows a little. That he and Clarke grew up together, that they fell into a friends with benefits situation in college, that it resulted in a kid they decided they wanted to keep. He travels for work a lot, but Bellamy has seen enough pictures to recognize some of his features in his son. Namely, the ones Bellamy doesn’t recognize in Clarke.

“Hey, Bellamy.”

“Hey.” He grins stupidly at her. “You guys want to give me a hand here?”

“Depends what’s in the box,” Brice decides.

“That’s fair.”

Of course, once he gets a peek at the fake blood, the kid’s hesitation vanishes.

Miller recruits Brice to climb the singular tree on their shared lawn, stringing up bats and ghosts while Miller gives ‘artistic direction.’ Meanwhile, Clarke offers to help Bellamy drape the cobwebs convincingly on the porch, windows, and any other surface that doesn’t look appropriately Halloween-esque.

“You know he’s going to make me go out and buy stuff to decorate our side now,” Clarke says, sticking a giant plastic spider into the webbing. “I blame you.”

“Don’t blame me. Blame Miller. He’s the one who dragged me into this.”

“Yeah, you seem really resistant.” She eyes his meticulous arrangement of the evil-eye window clings. They were a dollar at CVS, but Bellamy knows they’ll look spooky enough when they glow in the dark.

“I used to be. I didn’t lift a finger to help the first year we lived here.” He smirks. “But then a lady from down the street caught me coming home from work one day and started yelling about how we’re endorsing Satan’s holiday, and how if I had any decency I wouldn’t encourage impressionable children to become devil worshippers.”

Clarke’s lips twitch like she can’t decide whether to sneer or laugh. Like she’s disgusted, but also knows where this story is going.

“What did you do?”

“What any reasonable person would do: I drove straight to the store and bought out whatever scary decorations they had left.” Clarke laughs, loud and genuine, like he’s only heard a few times before. Every time he makes it happen, he wants to hear it more.

“Then I assume you have more stuff somewhere,” she says, looking around at the barely-touched yard.

“Tons.” He jerks his head toward the house. “Want to give me a hand?”

“Sure.”

She casts one last look at Brice and steps through the door Bellamy is holding open for her.

“The boxes are on the landing,” he says, following as she starts up the stairs. “Actually, you might be able to help us. We think our skeleton is missing some parts--”

He’s interrupted by the sudden press of her body against his; her hands on his shoulders, pushing him until his back meets the wall; the way her lips find his, hot and enthusiastic. His fingers grip her waist, pull her eagerly against him. 

They both stumble a little. The stairs prove an unfamiliar obstacle but it all makes Bellamy feel like a teenager again-- the awkward maneuvering, the secrecy, the giddiness unfurling in his chest, the way his senses are completely consumed.

Well, not _completely_. 

Brice’s sharp laughter cuts through the screen door and Bellamy finds them both slowing it down. His thumbs make gentle, soothing circles on her hips. She tears her mouth away, pressing her smile into his chest instead.

“I’m sorry for jumping you like that,” she whispers.

“Yeah, uh, I’m not,” he laughs, kissing the top of her head. “For the record, you don’t ever have to apologize for pushing me up against a wall. But if you still want to keep this on the down low, we should maybe get back out there.”

She laughs weakly.

“I just haven’t really dated anyone since he’s been old enough to know what that means. And Wells takes dating even slower than I do--”

“I know,” he assures her. “I told you, take your time. I don’t mind going slow.”

Ever since Octavia got married, she’s been-- not pushing, not exactly, but it almost feels like she’s trying to convince him how great it is to settle down. Bellamy has never been in a rush, never felt like being ‘settled’ and being single were mutually exclusive. 

He doesn’t mind taking his time with Clarke, not if it means he gets to be in her life. And in Brice’s.

She sighs and steps away.

“Okay. Alright. You were saying something about…”

“Skeletons.”

“Skeletons. Right. Lead the way.”

* * *

Bellamy is surprised at the knock on their door. Miller is over at Monty’s, so he shouldn’t be getting guests, and Bellamy isn’t expecting anyone.

He’s less surprised when he finds Clarke and Brice on the other side.

“I got called in to work,” she says, all in one breath. “I know you’re with kids all day, so you can absolutely say no, but--”

“Brice can hang out with me,” he offers immediately. “Or I can come hang out over there.”

“Thank you. Seriously.”

“No problem. Just let me grab keys and shoes.”

Clarke assures him she’ll be back in a few hours, kisses Brice on the top of his head, then moves as if to give Bellamy a goodbye peck on the lips. They both freeze, catching themselves at the last moment, and then she’s out the door.

Bellamy clears his throat, trying to get his bearings back.

“So.” He looks down at Brice. “What do you want to do?”

Apparently Brice is disgruntled that his mother hasn’t bought them any Halloween decorations yet. Bellamy has seen enough elementary school-level art over his teaching career to come up with some craft projects even he can’t screw up.

He only realizes how marginally awkward an idea this is when no source of conversation readily presents itself. So he goes with the only question he ever liked to get asked as a kid.

“What are you reading these days?”

Brice _lights up_ , yammering on about Captain Underpants and Magic Treehouse and books Bellamy has never even heard of. They fall into discussion easily, and something warms in Bellamy’s chest.

He’s good with kids. He’s always been good with kids. And he knows he’s good with _Clarke’s_ kid, within their student-teacher interactions.

He didn’t realize how worried he was that he and Brice wouldn’t get along. That outside of their shared context, they wouldn’t have anything in common. That he wouldn’t feel especially connected to this seven-year-old, in comparison to all the others he knows.

But he does. The connection is small, but it’s there. And Bellamy is relieved.

They talk about how Clarke is reading him Harry Potter before bed, and then Bellamy shows him Potter Puppet Pals, because it’s a classic.

“Are there Percy Jackson puppets?” Brice asks, after replaying the video six or seven times and cackling through each one.

“Not that I know of, but there definitely should be,” says Bellamy. “You like Percy Jackson?”

“I _love_ Percy Jackson!” He draws out his words, like Bellamy won’t believe him otherwise. “I want to be him for Halloween but Mom says I can’t.”

“What?” Bellamy frowns. “Why not?”

“She couldn’t find a costume at the store,” Brice shrugs. “She said she would look on the internet though.”

Bellamy searches his memory, and then google.

“It doesn’t look like it would be a hard costume to make,” he says, showing Brice the fan art he has pulled up. “Just a t-shirt that says Camp Half Blood and the necklace, right?”

“And a sword!”

“Yeah,” Bellamy laughs. “I bet we can find all that stuff at the store. Want to go see?”

His car doesn’t have a booster seat, but Brice is tall enough for his age Bellamy thinks they’ll be okay. The craft store does have orange shirts, as well as t-shirt paint, and they pick through the selection of beads until Brice is satisfied.

“I don’t think they sell swords here,” Bellamy tells him as they fall in line to check out. “But his sword turns into a pen, right? If you and your mom can’t find one, I’ve got tons of pens you can use.”

“Mom has a _million_ pens,” Brice says, hopping from one foot to the other. “But a sword would be cooler.”

“Way cooler.”

Brice falls quiet on the ride home, and Bellamy almost thinks he’s asleep when--

“Are you Mom’s boyfriend?”

Bellamy’s hands tense on the wheel, his eyes flickering to the rearview mirror so he can scrutinize the boy’s expression.

“What makes you think that?”

“She never left me with our neighbors at our old house,” he explains, wrinkling his nose. “Her house smelled bad. But she had a cat, so I wouldn’t have minded.”

Bellamy almost laughs.

“I think that’s a question you should ask your mom.”

“Okay.” Brice swings his legs. “Do you know any ghost stories?”

By the time Clarke gets home, Bellamy and Brice are bent over his costume, carefully inking words on the t-shirt in permanent marker.

“What’s going on, guys?”

She leans in behind Brice, her side brushing against Bellamy’s, almost causing him to jerk and ruin the perfect line.

“Mom, it’s Percy Jackson!”

Bellamy picks the Sharpie up and lets himself look at Clarke, who is studying him fondly. There’s the warmth in his chest again.

“Wow,” she says, tearing her eyes away from him to smile at her son. “Looks great, baby. Are you hungry? I grabbed burgers on the way home. Why don’t you go wash your hands?”

Once he’s gone, Clarke leans toward Bellamy, planting her lips firmly on his for a heady couple of seconds.

“Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me. I didn’t even do that much.” He’s blushing. He’s thirty, and she makes him blush like he’s never been kissed before. “You should know, though-- he asked if I’m your boyfriend.”

Clarke’s smile fades slightly, dimming the glow in his chest.

“Are you?”

Bellamy blinks, uncertain all of a sudden.

“I thought I was. But if you--”

“No.” She reaches out to grab his hand. “We’re on the same page. I thought you were too. I just-- needed to check, before I explain it to anyone else. Especially a seven-year-old who--”

“Where’s the burgers?” Brice demands, charging back into the room. Bellamy moves to drop Clarke’s hand but she keeps his, squeezes it once before she lets go.

“On the counter.” Brice changes course and she starts to follow him into the kitchen, then pauses to look back over her shoulder. “I got you one too. You coming?”

“Yeah.” Bellamy smiles, feeling impossibly light. “I’m right behind you.”


	9. "it looks good on you."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part of Clarke's Halloween costume involves a corset, and Bellamy is awestruck.

“Why did I agree to this?” Bellamy grumbles, pulling a pair of plaid trousers off the rack and holding them up so Clarke can make an appropriately disgusted face.

“Because it’s your sister’s event,” she tells him for the twentieth time.

“It doesn’t start until _ten_ , Clarke.”

She holds up a lacy shirt with big bell sleeves, wondering how visible the large stain will be in the dark. Thrift store shopping is always hit or miss.

Luckily, they’re shopping for zombie costumes, meaning questionable stains and rips aren’t out of the question.

They’re doing all this for a program Octavia is coordinating for Old Arktown, the minor tourist attraction that puts their town on the map. It’s nothing more than a small square of colonial-era shops, but school field trips and educational family vacations mostly keep it in business.

They hired Octavia to run their social media, but she ended up as more of a liaison between the historical society and the demographic they have the most trouble catering to: ‘young people.’ Hosting haunted tours for Halloween had been her idea, and Clarke signed up as much because it sounded fun as because her best friend’s sister was running it.

“Ten isn’t that late,” she tells Bellamy now, exasperated.

“It is when you have to wake up at six thirty.”

“Which you don’t because tomorrow is Saturday, and you don’t have school.” She spies black laces and flips through the rack, locating the corset. “I don’t get why you’re being so difficult about this. Nobody made you sign up. Clearly you thought it was going to be fun.”

“I thought I’d be manning the ticket booth or something, not having to dress up.”

“Did you not tell Octavia what you wanted to do? I told her I wanted to be a scarer and she said it was no problem.”

There’s a long enough pause she has to look up, and when she does the tips of his ears are red, his eyes so focused on the clothes in front of him that she isn’t sure he’s actually seeing anything.

“I told her to put me on whatever you were doing,” he mutters, pushing a hanger aggressively to the side. Clarke bites back an affectionate smile. He’s so predictable.

“Then you have no one to blame but yourself.”

“Yeah, yeah. At least this way if I run into my students they won’t recognize me and I won’t have to make awkward small-talk with their parents.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Bellamy doesn’t end up buying anything at the thrift store. Nerd that he is, he’s part of the Old Arktown Reenacters, and has in his possession a replica Revolutionary war uniform. Which means he only came along to spend time with Clarke, she realizes with a smile as she pays for her items.

“Will they zombify me or do they expect me to do it myself?” He asks as they step out into the autumn air.

“Octavia said I should do mine and yours.” Because it’s a given for everyone-- him, her, all their friends-- that they’ll be getting ready together. Going together. Working together. It’s not all the togetherness Clarke wants with him, but to be able to know without a doubt that Bellamy will be by her side… that’s not nothing.

“I owe you.”

“Put it on my tab.”

Most of her friends moved away from Arktown when they graduated from the nearby state school, but she loves it here. Loves that anywhere she wants to go is in walking distance (without city traffic or hour-long commutes on public transportation), loves the crisp cold of late October.

Loves that Bellamy stayed local, taking a job at the school where he did his student teaching so he could stay close to his sister.

She even loves Old Arktown, as kitschy as it can be. She’s excited for the excuse to get dressed up, go all-out on stage makeup, and run around startling tourists with her best friend.

They go their separate ways, both heading home to get their costumes ready before Clarke turns them undead.

She slips into the corset and the lace shirt, pulling on a full, floor-length skirt Octavia had pilfered from the Old Ark wardrobe department. It doesn’t look all that colonial, but in the dark it’ll do the trick.

Her own makeup takes her over an hour-- a base layer to give her a sickly gray tinge, gashes that ooze fake blood, dark under-eye circles that take her back to finals in school. It turned out even better than she anticipated, and she’s admiring it when Bellamy lets himself in.

“I’ve got food,” he calls. “Should I put my costume on now or wait until after we eat?”

“Depends how committed you are to keeping that uniform in pristine condition,” Clarke teases, dumping the makeup in her arms onto the table. When she looks up at him, he’s-- well, he’s staring at her cleavage. Which didn’t need the help of a corset, but looks pretty damn good in Clarke’s opinion.

Her lips twist in amusement.

She’s caught his eyes dipping before, momentary slips she can’t blame him (or anyone else) for. But he’s never blatantly stared, like he’s doing now.

“You okay there?”

He swallows and drags his gaze up, face red as the leaves outside. She’s pretty sure she’s a little red too.

“Are you wearing a corset?”

“Yep.”

“How… historically accurate.”

Clarke bursts out laughing and he turns red again, has to look away from her.

“I’m swooning,” she teases. “You really know how to charm a girl.”

“I’m sorry.” He’s laughing at himself as he rubs the back of his neck, head still ducked. “It looks good on you. I-- You caught me off guard. I was trying to give you a compliment without being really gross.”

“Historical accuracy is a very high compliment coming from you,” Clarke agrees, giddy. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything that he was checking her out, but it doesn’t hurt to know the guy she’s been pining after finds her attractive.

“Shut up.” He’s still red, but at least he’s looking at her now. She reaches for a sweatshirt nearby and zips it up over her chest, careful not to let it muss her fake wounds.

“Better?”

His jaw muscle jumps. “I can’t decide.”

Clarke’s heart stops, then starts again.

“On the one hand,” he continues, sidling closer, “this is definitely better for my sanity. On the other hand…” She swallows as his hands find her waist. “If I kiss you, is it going to ruin your makeup?”

Clarke’s heart is drumming in her chest. She knows it’s working, and working hard, but she feels a little bit dizzy. It might be the corset. It might be Bellamy.

“Probably,” she admits. “And we don’t have a lot of time to waste. Can you wait until we’re done helping your sister?”

He laughs and kisses her hair instead.

“I’ve been waiting years,” he admits. “What’s a few more hours?”

Clarke keeps the jacket on all the way to Old Ark, but it doesn’t stop the intoxication of being so close to getting everything she wants. Of being physically close to him, feeling him watch her as she paints his face. Of his hand on her hip, or hers bracing themselves on his shoulders, to steady her as she leans over him.

When she takes it off again, he’s determinedly not looking in her direction. She’d laugh, except it’s not that funny anymore. This night she was so looking forward to is now an obstacle to be overcome, a river to wade through before they can come out the other side.

They make it all the way through, and then Clarke is hurriedly putting the jacket back on while they help Octavia clean up. It’s well after midnight when they finally (finally) get to wave their friends goodbye and start the walk home.

The air between them is charged and Clarke doesn’t know quite what to say. It doesn’t feel like the spell cast earlier is broken, but she doesn’t know how to get them started. Doesn’t want to be wrong about what he wants, where this is going.

His hand traces down her arm, his fingers slotting between hers, and it quiets her mind. She wants to laugh, because it’s _Bellamy_.

She uses their linked hands for leverage, pulling him toward her for a quick kiss. A kiss that makes her wonder why she cared so much about her makeup in the first place.

“I was trying to make it home before we started this,” he grumbles, his voice so low it sends shivers down her spine.

She doesn’t know if he means his place or hers, but it probably doesn’t matter. They spend enough time together that both places feel like home to her. Any room Bellamy is in feels like home to her.

“Okay, okay,” she says, batting his hand away from the zipper of her jacket. “We can not do this on the street. Home is a good call.”

He clears his throat and takes her hand again, pulling her along quicker than before.

“Hey,” she laughs, even as she matches his pace. “Chill out, speed racer. We’ve got time.”

“Years, Clarke. _Years_.”

“I know.” She tugs on his hand to slow him down, make him look at her. She needs him to know before it goes any further. “Trust me, I know. If I’d known all it would take is a corset to get you to make a move, I would’ve worn one every day. But there’s no rush. I’m not going anywhere.”

This assurance slows his step. He catches her around the waist, pulling her to him to plant his lips firmly on hers.

“Not going anywhere, huh? I like the sound of that.”

Clarke bites his lip, she’s smiling so much. It sounds pretty good to her too.


	10. i just caught my coworker hiding in a closet, eating the good candy and instead of ratting them out i joined them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from @craniumhurricane on tumblr: I just caught my coworker hiding in a closet, during the office's Halloween pot luck, eating the good candy and instead of ratting them out I joined them.

Bellamy looks at his watch for what feels like the fifteenth time in the past minute.

He’s not at all surprised that she’s not here yet. For all that Clarke promised she’d show at the office party, she’s made her opposition to Halloween clear over the past month.

“I’m all for kids dressing up and pigging out on candy and having a great time,” she’d insisted more than once. “But a lot of adults use the holiday as an excuse to be a dick. Groping people at parties because they can hide behind their masks, assuming that girls want to be hit on because we’re wearing sexy costumes. And the pranks... I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had my car keyed or my house egged on Halloween.”

“That last one sounds like a you problem,” Bellamy pointed out. She shot a rubber band across her desk at him and he’d dodged it, a practiced move. Claiming the desk across from hers was the best professional decision he’d ever made.

“I’m just saying, it’s not excusable to be an ass just because you’re dressed as the Joker.”

“Ah, Jared Leto syndrome,” Bellamy nodded and leaned back in his chair. Claiming the desk across from hers had also been a poor decision for his productivity, because he made this move several times a day. “I don’t get why you let other people’s dickish behavior turn you into the Halloween equivalent of the Grinch. I mean, I’m a dick every day and you still put up with me.”

It was true. The highlights of his work days, besides talking to Clarke, were finding little ways to mess with their coworker Cage.

She was the perfect partner in crime, with the innocent doe-eyed expression she could whip out at any given moment, and the devious mind she had for coming up with pranks. Most recently, they’d divided their efforts: Clarke was running a long catfishing con on him while Bellamy distracted him with smaller daily pranks so he wouldn’t get suspicious.

“True,” Clarke agreed with a shrug. “But you’re like a vigilante, putting your dickishness to good use. I’m compatible with your kind of dick.”

Bellamy raised one eyebrow. Instead of blushing and backtracking, like he expected, she’d just smirked.

An offer for her to find out firsthand had nearly leapt off his tongue like a springboard, but he managed to hold it back. They were at work. He could try to be professional.

“Come on, Princess,” he’d said instead. “You’re telling me there’s nothing you like about Halloween?”

Unfortunately, Bellamy had been so flustered that he’d spoken loud enough for Jasper to overhear.

“You _don’t like Halloween_?” He’d asked, jaw dropping. Clarke had shot Bellamy a glare.

“Not particularly.”

And from that moment on, Jasper had vowed to change her mind, blasting ‘This is Halloween’ on repeat, punctuating whatever he was saying with spooky sound effects from a phone app, going all-out decorating the office, even organizing a staff Halloween party after work on the day of. Unsurprisingly for Bellamy, the more Jasper tried to convince Clarke of Halloween’s greatness, the deeper she sunk into Halloween hatred.

But she’d promised Bellamy she’d show at the party.

“You can’t leave me alone with them,” he’d pleaded.

“You don’t hate them all.”

They were tucked into the back corner of the break room, taking their lunch an hour later than everybody else as usual. When she thought he wasn’t looking she’d steal pasta from his tupperware container. He dipped his carrots in her hummus more blatantly, not wanting to pass up the opportunity to see her faux-grumpy expression.

“You like Monty,” she continues. “And Jasper, though I’m less fond of him now than I was a month ago.”

“Yeah, but if you come I can stand in the corner and judge everyone.”

“Like you wouldn’t be doing that anyway.” She seemed to be fighting a smile. “Just admit I’m your favorite, Blake.”

“Oh, definitely.” She paused with a cracker halfway to her mouth. “Plus, I’m planning to drop fake spiders in everything Cage tries to put in his mouth. You don’t want to miss that.”

She smiled for real. “No, I really don’t.”

She promised she’d come, but now it’s an hour into the party and she hasn’t shown yet. 

Bellamy heaves a sigh and sets his punch down. She’s a workaholic, especially when she can use work as an avoidance tactic. She definitely needs him to come distract her.

But when he gets back to their desks, she’s not there. He pulls his phone out and only pauses a second before calling her. They don’t talk on the phone a lot, though they have texted from time to time. Usually during boring meetings, or when they need to coordinate different parts of a more complicated prank.

He hears it ring through his end, and then he hears her phone buzzing in real life, and muffled curses that he definitely recognizes.

He pulls the phone away from his ear and tracks the sounds to a supply closet, already grinning when he pulls the door open.

“Gotcha.”

She blinks up at him from the step stool she’s sitting on, guilty and surprised at first, and then sheepish.

“Sorry. I know I said I’d come to the party but I had some spite to exercise first.”

Bellamy opens his mouth to ask, but then he spies the jar of candy in her lap and his grin widens.

“Is that from Jasper’s desk?”

She scowls. “He wouldn’t let me have any _all month_. Not until I said Halloween is the greatest. This is my revenge.”

Bellamy looks around at the empty office then steps inside, pulling the door closed behind him. Her phone is still on flashlight mode but it takes him a moment to adjust to the darkness as he drops to sit on the ground next to her.

“What are you doing?”

He holds his hand out and makes a grabby motion. “I’m helping.”

She bites her lip and passes him some candy, as well as a glue stick.

“I’m not just tearing into them,” she explains when he gives her a confused look. “I’m opening them really carefully, eating the candy out from inside, then gluing it closed so that it looks like they’re untouched.”

Bellamy lets out a startled laugh and carefully peels a wrapper apart.

“You’re the best,” he says, without really thinking.

She’s quiet for a moment. Part of him wants to retract the statement somehow, to make it less obvious. But he’s not subtle; everyone knows he thinks she’s the best by now, and if she doesn’t… she really ought to.

“This job really sucked before they hired you,” she says suddenly. He pauses mid-chew. “I don’t know if-- I don’t think I’ve ever really told you that.”

He swallows.

“Told me what? How much this job sucks? Because I definitely know that.”

“No.” She gives him an exasperated look. “You’re really going to make me say it?”

“Say what?”

She kicks his shoe and huffs as he laughs.

“You’re such a dick.”

“Takes one to know one.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re so lucky I like you.”

“True.” He feels like his chest is full of helium. “You’re an evil mastermind. Wouldn’t want to get on your bad side.”

She chews on her lip and doesn’t respond to his teasing, which is really unlike her, and he feels like more of a dick than usual. He’s pretty sure she’s making a move, something he’s been failing at for the past eight months. He doesn’t have to make this harder for her.

He takes a breath and nudges her foot with his. “Hey. What are you doing after this?”

She looks up sharply. “What?”

“You want to go get real food? I know you’re probably pretty full from all this candy--”

“I could make some room for a burger,” she says, smiling tentatively. “But are you sure? You seemed to have your heart set on going to the party. Who’s going to put spiders in Cage’s salsa if we leave?”

Bellamy laughs nervously. She might be the perfect woman.

“I’d always rather hang out with you,” he admits.

Her smile grows. “Just to be clear… this is a date, right?”

“Only if you want it to be.”

“I want it to be.”

“Good.” He’s sure his own smile is just as goofy. “Then it’s a date.”

“Yeah.” She ducks her head, directing her smile at the pile of candy in her lap. “It’s a date.”

 

The next year, Jasper is wary as he sets out the jar of candy on his desk.

“You’re not going to make weird gatekeeping rules this year are you?” Clarke asks. The look Jasper gives her is pure distrust.

“Don’t worry, I learned my lesson.”

“Good.”

Once Jasper’s back is turned, Bellamy flicks a paperclip across the desk at Clarke.

She rolls her eyes. “What?”

“You still hate Halloween?”

She purses her lips, her go-to move when she finds him ridiculous and is trying not to smile. The irony that their anniversary shares a date with her least favorite holiday has not been lost on either of them.

“No,” she admits, her eyes glinting with amusement and love. “I guess it’s not so bad after all.”


	11. "who did this to you?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy gets blamed when Clarke is the victim of a prank. He understands why. They have had a prank war going for a few years now. But he really didn't do it this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i just did a bellarke!prank pals fic but i couldn’t bring myself to go any more serious than this today

Bellamy doesn’t get called to the principal’s office often but when he does, it’s invariably because of Clarke Griffin.

He does his best to be a good student, to keep his head down and not get into trouble-- or at the very least, not get caught. College is a dream that won’t become a reality if he can’t get a scholarship, and he can’t get scholarships without good grades and good behavior.

The thing about Clarke is, she seems to feel the same way. The prank war they started their freshman year of high school tends to run in a specific pattern: one of them will start with something small, the other will retaliate a little bit bigger, and it escalates until the administration takes it upon themselves to step in. Once they get big enough to get in trouble, they both back down and the cycle restarts.

As big as the pranks have been, he’s only gotten detention once in the past three years because of the war.

Really, he couldn’t have known the school would get so mad at him for stacking all the picnic tables in a pyramid on her parking spot. Her retaliation--hiring a mariachi band to follow him around in the halls--felt like more of a revenge on Principal Wallace than on Bellamy, and landed her in detention right along with him.

That meant two hours every day for a week where they were on the same side. Two hours a day of surreptitiously playing hangman, of laughing at each other’s grotesque doodles of Principal Wallace, of exchanging exasperated looks when one of them got chastised.

It remains one of his favorite weeks ever.

Since then, they’ve been friendlier in the halls. More chatting, brighter smiles as they trade trash talk, a gleam her eye takes on when he catches it across the room.

That doesn’t mean the war slowed down any. So far this year, he’s found his gym shirt swapped out with a neon pink tee that declares CLARKE GRIFFIN IS BETTER THAN ME (and worn it with pride). He’s found his calculator encased in jello that has been molded perfectly into the shape of a dick. He’s found his notes swapped out with mirror-image photocopies (although she gave the real ones back to him before the test).

But he’s been too busy to do anything lately, what with exams and the holidays, and lacking in inspiration, so it surprises him when he gets called to the principal’s office before he even makes it to his locker one morning. 

He hasn’t even earned it yet.

Unsurprisingly, Clarke is already sitting in the waiting area, arms clutching a jacket tight across her chest, her scowl darker than usual, and her hair-- green. Not an even green but a patchy, thin green that screams, _this was not intentional!_

Bellamy feels an odd lurch in his stomach when she doesn’t look at him as he takes the seat next to her.

She usually takes pranks with good humor. This has her looking angry and Bellamy finds his own anger flaring up.

As much as he loves to mess with her-- and she with him-- they aren’t enemies; it’s just how they express their friendship. Some friends study together and go to the movies. Others swap their friend’s PB&J for canned beet and mayonnaise sandwiches.

He likes Clarke. A little too much, if he’s being honest with himself. And he doesn’t like it when the people he cares about are feeling bad.

He reaches out to twist one lock around his finger, frowning when she flinches away from him.

“Who did this to you?”

Her eyes flash when they finally meet his. “It wasn’t you?”

“Of course not. You know I take credit for my schemes. I like to gloat. How did it even happen?”

“Hair dye in my shampoo after morning swim practice.” Her face relaxes slightly, but her posture is still wound tight. “The other thing wasn’t you either?”

“What other thing?”

She pauses, then shrugs and opens her jacket to show him that her shirt has been cut up in the chest area, a la Mean Girls. His face floods with red, though he can’t tell if he’s more embarrassed or angry.

“No, that definitely wasn’t me. Do you have anything to change into?”

“Just my jacket.”

He roots around in his backpack, finding the CLARKE GRIFFIN IS BETTER THAN ME shirt stuffed in the bottom.

“Here.”

Her smile is small as she takes it from him.

“You just carry this around with you?”

“I was going to wear it at practice this afternoon, but I don’t really need it.”

“Bellamy, it’s November. It’s cold. You can’t just go shirtless.”

“It’s unseasonably warm, and I think we’re in the gym anyway. Take the shirt, I’ll be fine.” He smirks. “It’ll contrast nicely with the green.”

She snorts and shakes her head. “Sorry. I don’t know why I thought it was you. You don’t cross the line like this.”

“Any idea who it could be?”

“Anyone who has access to the girls changing room.” Her eyes flicker to him. “Or anyone who knows the combination for my locker.”

“Twelve, thirty five, twenty five,” he says automatically, hoping to pull another smile from her. It works, even if she ducks her head to hide it.

“Thirty one, ten, thirteen,” she says, reciting his own combination back to him. He grins. She smiles back, brighter and less embarrassed. “I’ve been wanting to dye my hair for years. Not green, but-- they’ll have to color it to get it back to what it was, so now my mom doesn’t have an excuse to stop me from doing something fun to it.”

“This isn’t fun?” He asks, tugging on a strand. She bats his hand away, and that’s familiar. He makes that move a lot and every time it feels like he’s reverting to his second-grade self, pulling his crush’s hair on the playground. 

He’s lucky Clarke likes to (figuratively) pull his hair right back, or he’d feel bad about it.

“No, it felt like a more personal attack than usual.” She makes a face. “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble. Coach sent me here for violating the dress code. As if I would do this to myself.”

“Ass,” Bellamy mutters. She laughs grimly.

“Yeah. I told them it wasn’t my fault and I guess our-- uh-- _history_ is pretty notorious.”

“I can see how they would have jumped to conclusions.”

“I’ll tell them it wasn’t you.”

“I know you will.” They’re quiet for a moment, and then he adds, “I’ll help you get revenge.”

She looks down at the pink shirt in her lap and smiles, her fingers tracing over the bold letters.

“I know you will.”

* * *

He’s surprised the next day when she slides in next to him at lunch, freezing with his forkful of pasta halfway to his mouth.

“What did you do to my food?”

“Nothing,” she laughs, nudging his shoulder. Raven, who had been talking quietly with Miller, looks over at them and quickly away again, a smirk pasted on her face. “As far as I’m aware, it’s safe to eat. I’m returning your shirt. Washed it and everything.”

He takes a tentative bite, relieved when it tastes normal.

“You didn’t have to do that.” He looks over at her for the first time and smiles. Her hair is back to blonde, but the tips of it are a vibrant pink. The same as the shirt. “I like the hair.”

“Thanks.” Her cheeks glow with the praise. “I like it too. My mom thinks it makes me look less respectable.”

“Screw that.”

She beams. “That’s what I said too.”

“You figure out who the culprit is yet?” He asks, offering her a carrot stick. She bites her lip and looks down at her lap.

“Um, yeah. Kind of. It’s– She’s on the swim team with me.”

She doesn’t elaborate and Bellamy frowns, unable to read her mood. She has a pretty high threshold for humiliation; he doesn’t understand where her fight went.

“So?” He prompts. “What’s the plan?”

“Oh, um--” She reddens, picking at a string in her jeans. “I don’t think I’m going to try to get her back.”

“Why not?”

“She, uh-- She didn’t mean it in a hurtful way. She thought I’d think it was, I don’t know, fun or something? She has a crush on me and she was trying to make a move.”

“She picked a terrible way of showing it.”

Clarke sighs in exasperation and looks up at him, a smile lurking at the corners of her mouth.

“Well apparently she picked up on something _you_  never have, because she knows that this-- pranking, teasing, messing around-- that’s how I flirt with people.”

“With _people_?” He repeats, his smile growing in proportion to her blush.

“With you, dummy.”

“You’re trying to flirt with me?”

“I’ve _been_  trying. Nobody knows how to flirt at fourteen. It’s not like you’ve done any better. And if you make fun of me about it, Bellamy Blake, I swear--”

He laughs and leans the short distance to the side so that he can brush his lips against hers. She makes a tiny noise, startled, but she’s laughing when he pulls back.

“I’m not going to make fun of you. I just can’t believe we wasted four years,” he teases, tugging on her pink hair. He never knew it would be a thing for him, but it’s bright and unexpected and pretty, just like her.

“I don’t know, it was pretty fun,” she shrugs. He wants to kiss her again because that’s exactly why he likes her. “Doesn’t feel much like a waste. And-- You’re only applying in-state, right?”

“Right.”

“Then we’ve got plenty of time,” she shrugs. “Besides, it will be _so_  much easier to get a goat into your dorm room if I have access as your girlfriend.”

He laughs and shakes his head, dropping his hand to rest on her knee. She laces her fingers through his without hesitation. 

“The possibilities are endless,” he agrees.

She grins. “That’s what I’m saying.”


	12. "no one has ever made me feel more special than you have."

A tickle of warmth on his back is what wakes him, the barest brush of hair against his bare skin. The wall is dappled with morning sunlight, his bed, his room, familiar around him. As memories of last night start to filter in, his lips curve into a slow smile.

He rolls over, reaching out, and nearly yelps when he hits a small furry body instead of finding-- well, his roommate. Who fell asleep curled around him the night before, her content, dare he say _satisfied_ , smile pressed between his shoulder blades.

“How’d you get in here?” He grumbles as Mewtwo climbs onto his chest, meowing pitifully. Clarke had been clear when she moved in that his cat would remain his responsibility. That feeding her and cleaning up her messes wouldn’t be part of their division of chores.

Clarke must have left the door open when she snuck out this morning.

For a sickening moment, he flashes back to all the times he saw her gracefully seeing her one night stands out, all the times he offered her a high-five and a cup of coffee and promised himself if she ever wanted something more than one night, he’d find the courage to say something.

But she never had wanted more than that.

And he never had said anything.

Not even last night, when they’d stumbled in a little after two, riding high on a fun night out with friends. She hadn’t seemed to mind when his hands had found her hips on the dance floor, or when they’d settled there again to steady her as she wobbled in her heels, trying to get her key in the lock.

As he replays it this morning, he can’t be sure they were actually on the same page.

She’d unlocked the door and paused, turning to face Bellamy. Her hands caught his and brought them back to her hips, her eyes locked on his as she pulled him close, until he was pressing her into the door. 

But she hadn’t said a word.

He’d meant the kiss to be a gentle question but the moment their lips met, that went up in flames. They made it through the door, hands moving furiously as they tried to undress themselves, each other, tried not to run into the island, laughed into each other’s skin as they stumbled over squeaky cat toys. Finally, he forced some space between them so he could walk her back into his bedroom. 

He hadn’t said anything either.

In the moment it had felt like an incredible connection. They were always doing that, communicating with a look or a gesture. It was spooky sometimes, how well she could read him. How easily they saw each other.

In the heat of the moment, it had felt special.

Now he’s wondering if he knew what he was getting into. The empty bed beside him feels like a clear message: that last night wasn’t the start of something. It was all three acts; beginning, middle, end.

A crash jolts him out of his reverie. He sighs at Mewtwo who had apparently pawed at his charging cord until it yanked his phone off the bedside table.

“This is why you don’t get to come in here,” he tells the cat, scooping her into his arms as he sits up. Her responding mewl is not appropriately apologetic. “Let’s get you some food, huh?”

As soon as he emerges he’s hit with the smell of something burning.

Clarke is standing at the counter in one of Bellamy’s t-shirts, shifting from one foot to the other as she scrapes the charred parts off the toast. He sets Mewtwo down and surveys the wreck formerly known as their kitchen. There are ingredients everywhere, a bowl of pancake batter dripping into the sink, runny eggs pooling on a plate.

“This is why I don’t let you in the kitchen,” he says. She shoots him a smile over one shoulder and tilts her head, as if to tell him to come closer. He swallows and shuffles forward a few steps, peering over her shoulder and wondering if he should move next to her instead.

She leans back into him before he can.

“What are you doing?” He asks, resting his hands on her shoulders. That’s innocent, right?

She snorts. “I know it’s hard to tell, but this is what I call cooking.”

“You’re cooking?”

“Don’t sound so surprised.” Her tone is light. Happy. “I have done this before. Or… I’ve seen it done. I theoretically understand that it could be done.”

“If you were hungry, you could have woken me,” he points out. “Or gone for bagels like every other Saturday.”

“But it’s not every other Saturday.” She rests her head on his shoulder, smiling sweetly up at him. “I wanted to do something special, but if none of this is appealing to you I can try to cook something else.”

“No, no, this is special,” he says quickly. “ _So_ special. No one has ever made me feel more special than you have.”

“That’s more like it,” she laughs, tipping her chin up for a real kiss.

Relief splits through him and he puts his arms around her waist, drawing out the kiss slow and honey-sweet.

“Give me a second to get the cat squared away and let’s have our breakfast in bed.”

Clarke eyes the mess ruefully. “That’s probably a good call.”

 

It’s not until the afternoon, when they’re still in Bellamy’s bed, feet intertwined beneath the sheets, a box of Pop Tarts scrounged from the depths of their cabinets, that he admits, “I kind of panicked when I woke up and you weren’t here.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, the smile on her face the same one that has been affixed there all day.

“Melodramatic much? I live here. Where would I have gone?”

“Back to your own room. Your own bed.” She curls further into him as he speaks, resting her head right above his heart. “You never seemed like you were looking for-- I was worried this was a one-night thing for you.”

“It’s not,” she says, tugging his arm until he wraps it around her. “I wasn’t looking for more than one night with anyone else because I want all my nights with you.”

“Good.” He exhales in relief, biting at the shell of her ear as she laughs at him. “So do I.”

 

He knows eventually he’ll tell her how he feels about her. The words are already building within him, ready to burst forth when he can’t hold them back anymore. But for now, today, in the quiet of their apartment on a peaceful Saturday afternoon, some things go without saying.


	13. "i honestly want to meet my true love when i'm sitting on the subway and he's sitting opposite from me and we realise we're reading the same book."

“I’m a _scientist_ ,” Clarke says, slurring only a little. It’s the third bar they’ve been to tonight, so she thinks it’s fair that she’s a bit tipsy.

“So?” Raven asks, amused. “Science and believing in signs from the universe aren’t mutually exclusive.”

Clarke frowns. “How are you so sober?”

“She’s a _drink machine_ ,” Gina giggles. She’s tipsier than Clarke is, bordering on drunk, and it’s made her loose enough to sit closer to Raven than she’d normally dare, bold enough to twirl a strand of Raven’s hair around her finger absentmindedly as she listens.

“I think you mean drinking machine,” Raven teases, looking over at her fondly. “I’m not a soda fountain.”

“No, but you’re terrifyingly competent at just about everything. I’d believe it if someone told me you were an actual robot,” says Luna, pointing her drink stirrer at Raven as if to punctuate her point. “But I agree. Sort of. Even if the universe doesn’t actually send us signs, I think our brains look for patterns and interpret coincidences that way. It’s real.”

“Exactly,” Raven nods. “And maybe signs are just science we haven’t figured out yet. Who knows? I’m just a rocket scientist; metaphysics is not my field of expertise.”

“Raven Reyes willingly admitting she doesn’t know something?” Clarke mock gasps. “Maybe she _has_ been replaced by a robot.”

Raven rolls her eyes but her lips twitch like she wants to smile. “Stop deflecting from the topic at hand, Griffin.”

“What was the topic?” Gina asks, then tries to snap her fingers as she remembers. “Oh, the bus guy!”

“What guy?” Luna asks, frowning. “I was getting another round and I missed things.”

Clarke sighs. “There’s this guy who rides the bus with me in the mornings and he always has a book with him, and it’s always a book I’ve either read or have on my list to read.”

“And he’s hot,” Raven adds, smug. Luna raises an eyebrow at Clarke, who shrugs.

“He’s not unattractive,” she admits, which is a total understatement. He’s got messy dark hair that looks like it would be perfect to run her fingers through, a nice smile and an even nicer voice that she took note of once when he offered his seat to an elderly woman with groceries, and levels of focus she hasn’t seen since med school.

Even when he’s standing, one hand grasping the bar above his head, he looks totally engrossed in whatever he’s reading. She's amazed he's never missed his stop.

She mentioned it to her friends only after she saw him reading _Station Eleven_ earlier that day, which she knows Raven read and loved. Gina had promptly decided it was a sign that Clarke should try to talk to him, and to Clarke’s surprise, Raven had backed her up.

“Sounds like fate to me,” Luna muses, swirling her glass. “He’s good-looking and you have a common interest. An obvious conversation starter. Who cares if it’s a sign or not?”

“Clarke is just trying to cover up the fact that she’s too much of a weenie to say anything,” Raven says, taking a pointed sip of her drink.

“A weenie? What are we, five?”

“Scared to talk to a boy? What are we, fifteen?”

“This literally can’t fail for you,” Luna adds. “If he isn’t interested, or if you embarrass yourself, who cares? He’s a stranger.”

“Thanks for the pep talk.”

“Seriously,” Raven says, raising one perfect eyebrow. “You don’t have anything to lose. What’s the harm?”

Clarke sulks for the rest of the night, mostly because she doesn’t have an answer to that.

* * *

She still doesn’t believe in signs, but it does feel like a hell of a coincidence the next day when Bus Guy slides into the empty seat beside her. He has  _The Girl Who Saved the King of Sweden_ open in his lap, which she’d read over the summer on Wells’s recommendation.

She’s not planning to say anything. She’s really not. But then he chuckles softly, under his breath like an involuntary reaction, and that somehow makes it feel safe for her to say, “What part are you at?”

It takes him a beat to realize she’s talking to him, and when he looks up at her in surprise she’s caught equally off-guard by the full force of his brown eyes. They’re beautiful and warm and she can’t look away, even when she starts to blush at his lack of response.

“Sorry to interrupt, it’s just-- I loved that book.”

“Oh,” he clears his throat, looking down as if he’s never seen the book in his lap before. “She just tricked the Mossad agents.”

“With the antelope meat?”

“Yeah. Serves them right for underestimating her.”

“That could be the tagline of the book. You were reading something different yesterday, right?”

He frowns and she feels herself reddening again.

“That sounded really creepy, didn’t it?”

“Not _really_ creepy. Maybe _mildly_ creepy.”

“It’s just-- you have good taste. And it seems pretty safe to zone out in your direction, since you’re too preoccupied to be making awkward eye contact with anyone.”

He laughs again, just as soft and genuine as the first time. “Why do you think I always have a book with me?”

“I just thought you liked to read.” She laughs too. “Clearly I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“Yeah, why would it be the obvious conclusion?” He shakes his head, smiling. He does have a nice smile. “I actually own a bookstore, and we also run a book blog to get our name out there a little more. Hence a different book every day.”

“So you really, _really_ like to read,” she supplies, and his smile is a full-out grin now.

“That’s pretty much what it boils down to.” His eyes flicker down and she’s almost irked until he says, “Dr. Griffin,” and she realizes he’s reading her name badge. “I’m Bellamy. Blake.”

“Call me Clarke.”

“You work at Ark General?”

She nods. “I’m in the first year of my residency.”

“That’s pretty time-consuming, right? At least, that’s what I understand from all the _Grey’s Anatomy_ I watched with my sister.”

“It’s so accurate, it’s practically a documentary.”

“Sure,” he snorts. “I’ve watched my fair share of documentaries and they are nothing like that. If they were, I might have been able to convince my sister to watch them with me.”

Clarke laughs, smitten. He’s funny, speaks fondly of his sister, uses words like hence in casual conversation. He’s _cute_. “Well, they weren’t wrong about how demanding it is on my schedule. And my arches.”

“And you use your free time to read instead of doing something a little more--”

“Mindless?” She supplies. “Not always. But I try to make time for the important things.”

He smiles and nods. “Good to know.”

They chat until her stop comes, and she waves goodbye with a small smile. She’s a little nervous the next day that it will have been some sort of fluke, a nice memory but not a repeat show. But then he smiles at her when he finds her eye, makes his way back to her with a copy of _All The Light We Cannot See_  tucked under his arm. After that, it becomes kind of A Thing.

She’ll save a seat for him before he gets on, if she can, but she almost starts to look forward to the mornings when the bus is too packed for such a thing. When the crowd pushes them to stand close, swaying closer when the bus hits a bump, his hand grazing hers on the pole. 

He teases her about her ability to reach the bar overhead, talks about his sister at great length, complains about his teen employees who recently broke up with each other and get upset when their schedules overlap. 

But mostly they talk about books. By talk, she means argue, and it’s the most fun she’s ever had on the bus. 

“Are you just saying this stuff to wind me up?” He asks suspiciously one Monday, after a tirade about the merits of _IQ84_  that lasts for four whole stops. 

“I would never.”

“If you want me to believe that, you need to work on your poker face.”

She bites her lip, trying to restrain her smile. She shouldn’t have been smiling in the first place, but he has a certain kind of charisma when he speaks passionately about something. It’s fun to watch.

"Like yours is any better. You’re an open book, Blake.”

He ducks his head, smiling down at his shoes. “Yeah, well. I guess all that reading rubbed off on me.”

The more she gets to know Bellamy, the more she likes him. And the more she likes him-- as she watches the way his eyes scan the seats when he gets on the bus, searching for her-- the more she wonders why he hasn’t asked her out yet.

* * *

“Well why don’t you just ask _him_  out?” Luna demands, when Clarke mentions this at their next girls night. “What are you waiting for?”

“A _sign_ ,” Gina teases.

“I am not.”

“We made a believer out of her!”

“I am _not,_ ” Clarke insists, laughing despite herself. “But I made the first move before because I didn’t have anything to lose. That’s not true anymore. We’re friends.”

“You’re bus friends,” Luna sniffs. “It’s not that great a loss.”

“And what’s the worst that’ll happen?” Gina asks, her tone more reasonable, eyes bright and earnest. “You said he’s a nice guy. It might be uncomfortable if he turns you down, but after a few minutes it’ll be fine.”

“And if he’s an asshole, you don’t want to date him anyway,” Raven points out.

Clarke hums thoughtfully and lets them change the subject. It lurks in the back of her mind and Raven notices her melancholy when they all pile into Luna’s car at the end of the night.

“You okay?” She murmurs, keeping her voice down so as not to disturb Gina, who seems to be drifting off to sleep with her head on Raven's shoulder.

“I have the day off tomorrow,” Clarke responds, smiling when she takes in the scene in the back seat. “It’s weird that I won’t see him. And it’s even weirder that not seeing him feels weird.”

“You can see him,” Luna points out. “You know where he works.”

“You really like this guy,” Gina says, her eyelids staying closed. Raven uses her other hand to smooth her curls gently back from her face. “If you don’t want to put yourself out there, don’t let us pressure you. But I would always wonder what if, you know?”

“She’s right,” Raven tells Clarke, smiling at Gina as she nestles further into her side. “The what-ifs are what’ll get you.”

* * *

She lies to herself the next morning, lets herself sleep in and putter around her apartment for a while, pretending she isn’t going to go see him, but she’s not at all surprised to find herself heading over in the afternoon. Any nervousness subsides when he looks up at the chiming of the door and a huge smile dawns on his face.

She knows she’s grinning like a loon right back at him. She has such a good feeling about this.

“Hey.”

“Hi.” She leans against the counter. “I’m looking for a book recommendation.”

“You’ve come to the right place. I think I have a sense for what you might like.” She laughs and he rubs the back of his neck, self-conscious. “I didn’t think I’d see you today.”

“Sorry, should I go?” She asks, making as if to leave.

“No,” he laughs, grabbing her hand. She links her fingers loosely with his. “So-- books?”

She squeezes his hand. “Lead the way.”

They wander between the stacks, pointing books out to each other as they recognize them, conversation flowing easily. It’s only once they’ve reached the back corner of the store that she stops them.

“You should know, I’m definitely leaving with a book but that’s not really why I'm here.”

“Okay,” he says slowly, his eyes dropping to her lips when she smirks. 

She grips the front of his shirt and pulls him toward her. He catches on quickly, smiling as he kisses her, backing her up against the shelves, hands finding her waist. His hair is exactly as soft as she thought it would be, his shoulders even broader up this close, and she's so relieved she wants to laugh.

He does break away to chuckle when the bell over the door chimes.

“Sorry, I have customers.”

“It _is_ your fault that I jumped you at work,” she agrees. He laughs, kissing her again.

“Well I’m glad you came by. Feel free to browse as long as you want. I don’t have a break soon but I’m off at five. You know, if that’s information you wanted to have.”

She tips her chin up for another kiss, fingers still ruffling the hair at the nape of his neck. “Noted.”

He’s leaning down again when someone clears their throat, looking embarrassed at the far end of the aisle.

“Yes,” he says, jumping out of her arms. Clarke muffles her laughter with a hand over her mouth. “I’ll be right with you.”

She can’t quite focus as she peruses the shelves, selecting a title she vaguely recognizes, though she can’t remember from where. Luckily, the counter is empty when she gets to it, and she’s able to lean across and kiss Bellamy, quick and sweet. 

He has to clear his throat a couple of times when she pulls away.

“Excellent choice,” he says, reaching beneath the counter to pull his own copy out of his bag. “It's funny, though-- I’m about halfway through it, myself.”

“Funny,” Clarke agrees, shaking her head. “Seems like a sign to me.”


	14. "i don't know how to love people without them dying"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't use that exact line but they have that general conversation

“This is where it falls apart,” Clarke whispers. Her finger traces random patterns across Bellamy’s chest, his gently untangling the knots in her hair.

The sun hasn’t yet risen but the sky outside has begun to lighten, those nebulous hours when night fades to morning and the world starts to think about waking up. Clarke greets them like an old friend. Most nights she wakes with a jolt-- sometimes from nightmare, other times from the stress of an unimaginably long to-do list-- and lets the slow ascent into day calm her racing mind.

Today, however, she wants to stay in that in-between state.

“What are you talking about?” His voice is low and hoarse. Neither of them slept much last night, but they didn’t exactly do much talking either. It had been a long time coming between them, and there wasn’t a lot they’d needed to say.

“I don’t want to get up.” She tilts her head up to look at him. “In my experience, when we leave this bed is when things go wrong. Your space girlfriend crash-lands, Roan kidnaps me…” She pauses. “Your adviser tries to assassinate me and hits you instead.”

His hand falters where it ghosts down her spine. She’d never told him explicitly what had happened between her and Lexa, but he knows she blames herself.

“To my knowledge, Miller isn’t out for your blood,” he says lightly, resuming his soothing path with more intent than before. “I don’t have a space girlfriend, and we’re on good terms with Roan--”

Clarke makes a _tch_ noise and feels the dip of his chest as he huffs a laugh.

“Okay, so we’re on good terms with Azgeda. Roan himself might still have a bone to pick with me, but that’s more of a personal grudge than political.”

“You shot him.”

“He stabbed me first,” Bellamy says reflexively. Clarke’s mouth curls into a smile. It’s moments like that when she can really tell he grew up with a sibling. “Besides, I think we’re square now. Even if he doesn’t like me much, I doubt he’ll ruin our treaty by seeking retribution. Not after the hours of meetings we had to sit through.”

Clarke sighs and props herself up on his chest so she can see him better. She’s not sure if it’s the sex or the hour, but there’s a certain softness to his features that makes her heart ache. That makes her want to be soft with him in return.

“Every time I let myself love someone, something terrible has happened. It’s like the universe is punishing me for letting myself be happy.” She flattens her palm over his heart, reassuring herself that he’s still here with her. One of his hands comes up to rest on top of hers, his thumb stroking across her knuckles. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. I don’t know if I can--”

Her throat closes up and she breaks off.

“Hey.” He pushes himself up a little, drawing her up with him, and wraps his arm around her back. “Clarke,” he says softly. She shakes her head, every ounce of her will going toward keeping her eyes dry.

“I know it’s irrational. But-- I spent so long in the skybox thinking my dad died because of me. And then Wells died because he followed me down here. And Finn, and--”

“Finn wasn’t in his right mind,” Bellamy says, gruff. Like he is when he disagrees with her on a fundamental level. “He made bad choices. And Wells died because of a traumatized kid, and that isn’t on you either. He and Finn and your dad made their own decisions--”

“And you’ve never made bad decisions when it comes to me?” She reaches down and traces her fingers over the scar on his thigh, remembering how she’d begged for his life. Remembering the total compliance she’d offered Roan in exchange. “Tell me you wouldn’t step in front of a bullet for me, Bellamy. That’s exactly the kind of stupid choice you’d make.”

He scoffs. “Like you wouldn’t do the same.”

“I would,” she admits, her voice soft. “That’s what scares me.”

He’s quiet for a moment, his head tipped back against the wall, eyes on the ceiling instead of on her face. “I get that,” he says finally. “It’s why I never pushed for this. For us. I knew you were gun-shy, so to speak. But if you’d asked me, I’d have said it’s kind of bullshit.”

Clarke frowns and opens her mouth to snap at him but he ducks down and kisses her, pulls her lower lip between his teeth. She must look as dazed as she feels when he pulls back, because she can see faint traces of a smirk on his face. The only word she can come up with is, “Bullshit?” 

He laughs but his eyes remain serious. “You not feeling ready isn’t bullshit,” he clarifies. “That’s valid, and I’d never-- I’m not placing any expectations on you. I want as much of you as you’re willing to give me.”

“I want to be with you,” she says, resting her forehead against his shoulder.

“Yeah?” She nods and feels him smile into her hair. “Cool. But this--” he gestures to the two of them, wrapped up together, “--doesn’t make me any more likely to take a bullet for you than I was before. It’s not exactly like anyone was fooled about how important you are to me.”

“How important we are to each other,” she corrects him, feels him nod.

“I’m just saying, disaster can strike at any time.”

“You’re really losing your touch with the whole inspirational speech-giving thing.” He pinches her elbow.

“You didn’t let me finish. I’m saying life down here is unpredictable. Even if you sent me away, or--” he pauses. “Even if you left again, that wouldn’t keep me safe. All if would do is stand in the way of us being happy together.”

She worries her lip. “When you put it like that, it does kind of sound like bullshit.”

“I’m saying.”

“I’m not leaving again,” she tells him, lifting her head. The room has brightened some and she can make out now the warm color of his eyes, the freckles that remind her of the stars from which they came. 

“Not without me, you aren’t,” he agrees. 

Outside their window, a bird starts chirping. It’s one of those things about the ground that still feels surreal, something she heard in videos and read about in books but never expected to be part of her life. And once she got to the ground, it often seemed too harsh for such a simple, beautiful sound.

When the sounds of the birds are masked by the sounds of their people, they climb out of bed, dressing slowly. He seems to sense her reluctance to part ways and walks her to medical, holding her hand as they tread across the dewy ground and dropping a kiss on her forehead before he goes.

"See you later,” he says, with an easy, certain smile. It sounds like a promise.

Still, it’s a relief at the end of the day when she lets herself into his compartment and he’s there on his bed, a book propped open in his hands, grinning at her. She sheds her boots and pants, and he watches with particular interest as she wriggles her bra out of her sleeve before crawling in beside him.

“See?” He says, his arm coming around her, hand resting heavy and reassuring on her hip. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Says the world champion of worrying.”

He shrugs. “If it keeps us alive...”

She kisses the dimple in his chin. “So I’ll worry about you, and you worry about everything else.”

“Seems fair,” he snorts. “We make a good team.”

“Yeah.” She slips one hand beneath his shirt, skin against skin as he readjusts his book so she can see it too. “We really do.”


	15. "i'm lost"

 

Bellamy weaves his way through the crowd. Two more hours of 2016, two more hours of being sociable and trying not to stress about how much anyone is drinking, and then he can start gently herding his friends toward the door.

He dodges flailing limbs as he passes Raven and Miller’s animated arguing and Jasper’s dubious dancing, edges around the crowd that gathered to watch Anya challenge Indra in an arm wrestling contest, studiously avoids looking in the direction where he knows his sister is sitting in her girlfriend’s lap. By the time he slips between Lincoln and Wells, laughing over cat videos on Luna’s phone, he’s never been more glad to see his kitchen empty.

Well, empty except for one person. But that one person’s presence is large enough to fill the whole apartment. He’s not sure how he only just now became aware of her.

“Clarke?” He says, dumbfounded. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m lost,” she deadpans. “Must have showed up at the wrong door. But you have champagne, so--” She lifts a solo cup to him and smirks. “Might as well stick around.”

“I meant-- I didn’t know you were coming,” he says, scratching the back of his head. She raises one eyebrow, expression perfectly sardonic.

“Aren’t you the host?”

“O is hosting. I just live here.”

"Ahh.” She nods, leaning next to him against the counter. “I didn’t think you were the type to make champagne jello shots.”

“You don’t know my life,” he says reflexively. To his gratification, she snorts. “She hosts all her parties at my place because she thinks it’s the only way to get me to come. And because my apartment is nicer than hers. I don’t get veto power over the music, or the food, or--”

“The guest list?” She asks, lips twisting in a wry smile.

“I wouldn’t have vetoed you,” he insists, though he doesn’t add that he’s just as glad Octavia didn’t mention Clarke was coming.

She and O were roommates their junior year of college and intended to keep living together through senior year, until Clarke changed her plans at the last minute to move in with her girlfriend. Octavia was left scrambling for a new living situation and for a long time, that series of events was all Bellamy knew of Clarke. It was enough to put a sour taste in his mouth whenever O referenced her, despite the fact that the two of them patched things up quickly.

She moved to the city a few months back and reconnected with his sister not long after. It shouldn’t have been awkward for her to start showing up at group activities, except Bellamy doesn’t know how to let go of grudges when they’re against people who have wronged Octavia.

Even when the subject of such a grudge turns out to be the kind of person he should have liked.

And he _does_ like her, is the thing. Over time, he’s seen her to be fiercely loyal to her friends and not unwilling to acknowledge her mistakes, clever and funny and willing to go to great lengths to help others. It’s a no-brainer, how awesome she is, only he dug himself into such a deep hole of unfounded prejudice that he doesn’t quite know how to climb out of it. To start over with her on even footing.

“You sure you don’t mind me being here?” She’s got that crease between her brows that she only gets when she’s concentrating hard. Without thinking, he reaches over and flicks the wrinkle lightly. It smooths under her surprise.

“Not at all.” It rolls off of his tongue easily because it’s the honest truth. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Doesn’t sound like you.”

He ducks his head. “Yeah, I know. I’m trying not to be so--”

“Pigheaded?”

“--when it comes to you. Call it a new year’s resolution.”

“A resolution specific to me,” she says, eyes narrowing as she studies him. “Why?”

He hesitates, but-- it’s worth saying. He’d want to hear it, if he was in her shoes.

“Because I've been wrong about you. It’s pretty obvious, actually, that you’re not who I thought you were, but it took me a little too long to get over myself. So I’m sorry, and I want to do better.”

She gapes for a moment-- a very satisfying moment for Bellamy-- and then her jaw snaps shut and she reaches out to place a hand on his forehead. Her skin is a little cooler than his, and he can smell the raspberry hand sanitizer she carries on her at all times.

“What--”

“Are you feeling okay?” She interrupts, the curl of her mouth betraying the joke. “You’ve gone a whole three minutes actually saying nice things to and about me. I’m starting to get worried.”

She’s grinning when he swats her hand away.

“See if it ever happens again,” he grumbles.

“I might die of shock,” she teases, and when he smiles back it feels suspiciously like flirting.

It’s not like he never noticed how hot she is. That’s always been a factor. It made him more resentful when he was determined to dislike her, and now-- 

Well, he doesn’t believe that the start of a new year is necessarily the demarcation of a new way of living, but it’s hard not to look back and think about slates he’d like to wipe clean. Maybe without the antagonistic attitude they’ve had toward each other, they’ll get along. Maybe flirting will be par for the course.

“Come on,” he says, shaking those thoughts away and impulsively offering his hand.

“Where are we going? My mother told me not to go with strangers.”

He rolls his eyes. “We’re going back to the party. To do party things for exactly--” he eyes the microwave clock-- “One hour and forty three more minutes.”

She checks the clock too. “What happens at 12:06?”

“I can reasonably start winding things down and go to bed.”

She drains her cup, then to his astonishment, places her hand in his open one. “Well, then. I guess we’d better get back to the fun before you pass out on us, Grandpa.”

“I’m not a grandpa; I’m a teacher,” he grumbles, towing her through the throng and only letting go when they reach the spot where Monty is looking for a new ass to kick on the Wii.

“Your internal clock wakes you up at 5 a.m. Same difference,” she shrugs, settling in close to his side.

And that’s where she stays for the remainder of the night: her elbow jostling his as they mash buttons at random (they never had a chance at beating Monty by playing outright; chaotic unpredictability is their only promising strategy), her hip bumping him as she sways to the music, her arm curling around his waist when he sinks a shot in beer pong.

He feels loose and light. It’s been a long while since he had this much fun at one of his own parties.

Unfortunately, when he breaks away for a refill, he gets an accidental eyeful. His sister’s girlfriend Niylah has her up on the counter, hands dangerously close to the hemline of her skirt. He snaps his eyes shut, throwing a hand across them for good measure.

“Octavia,” he says in a strangled voice. “This is where I eat. Don’t-- don’t turn that dirty. Just, can you please take this somewhere I won’t walk in on you?”

“Well, since you said please,” she grants, and he hears the sound of her heels hitting the floor as she hops down. Still, he doesn’t dare to move his hand, starts backing into the living room full of people as he tries to scrub the image from his brain.

Just as he stumbles over the threshold, a pair of hands catch him around the waist.

“Watch out,” Clarke’s voice says, laughter bubbling softly. “You almost bumped into a lamp. Roan was going to let you.”

“My savior,” he jokes, his voice still off. “Tell me, is my sister gone?”

“Uh, yeah. She and Niylah just-- Oh.” She leans her forehead against his shoulder, laughing again. “I get it,” she says, and reaches up to catch his hand. He lets her drag it down to his side. “She’s gone,” she assures him.

“I don’t know if that’s better or worse,” he admits, opening one eye only to find Clarke smiling goofily back up at him. She’s softer around the edges, a few drinks in, and her pale skin holds an obvious flush. “I don’t want to imagine what they needed the privacy for.”

“Yeah, I’d advise against it,” she says brightly, then holds out a hand. “Come on.”

“My mother told me--”

“Don’t steal my material. Just trust me.”

Weirdly, he does. So he puts his hand in hers and lets her lead him out to the tiny back deck. It doesn’t feel too cold out, not with the warmth from the party still sticking to his skin, not with the buzz of champagne lighting up every nerve. Not with the way Clarke’s smile causes something to glow inside him.

“I really needed some air,” she confesses, breathing deep. “I love our friends, but I do better one-on-one than in big groups.”

“Funny, because I do better in big groups.” He braces his hands on the railing and leans forward, drifting to the side when she nudges his shoulder with her own.

“You’re doing pretty well tonight.”

He slants his gaze toward her. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She pauses. “Though maybe my expectations are just really low.”

“I didn’t set the bar very high for myself, did I?” He chuckles. It hangs visibly in the air for just a beat before dissolving.

“I don’t know.” Her voice is quiet, pensive. He looks down at her and finds that they’re much closer than he anticipated, finds himself tilting toward her even more so that he can hear her better. “I’ve seen the way you act around everyone else,” she muses. “I didn’t think you were really that bad. Part of me felt like I earned a little bit of a hard time for the bad decisions I made when I was with my ex, but it’s also kind of nice think I actually earned your good favor.”

“You shouldn’t have had to.”

“Maybe not, but-- You’re not _entirely_ wrong about me. There are a lot of things I got in my life that I never had to earn, even if I could have.”

He smiles teasingly. “You’re welcome, then.”

She rolls her eyes but leans toward him. He can see her sagging from that wine-tinted tiredness that comes at the end of a nice night, and wraps his arm around her to hold her up. His heart does something funny when she rests her head on his shoulder without hesitation.

Inside, he can hear the music shut off.

“I think they’re turning on the broadcast,” he says. Clarke hums, the sound vibrating through his chest. “You want to go back in?”

She’s quiet for long enough he doesn’t think she’s going to answer, but then she says, “I’m good right here.”

A smile tugs at his lips. They stay like that, tangled together, as excitable voices rise above the rest, counting down the seconds until midnight.

“I can’t believe they started at forty,” Clarke whispers, a fond undercurrent to her exasperation.

“Can’t you? This is Jasper we’re talking about.”

The chorus grows once they get down to the single digits, though Bellamy and Clarke remain quiet, listening. The world around them feels still, holding its breath, even as the time slides seamlessly from one year to another and the house erupts in cheers.

She draws back to look up at him, then rises on her toes to press her lips to his cheek. They land dangerously close to his mouth, firm and sure and a little cold. He’s too shellshocked to move, and before he knows it she’s pulling away to give him a dopey, tipsy, easy smile.

“Happy New Year, Bellamy,” she says, nestling her head back against his chest. He adjusts so his hand is more securely wrapped around her, his thumb tracing an arc back and forth against her side.

“Happy New Year, Clarke.”

He thinks it’s going to be a good year, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm doing a thing and you should [check it out](http://katchyalater.tumblr.com/post/155005909253/hello-internets-i-hope-youre-having-lovely)! requests close january 4


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